The Lone Centurion
by Caput Inter Nubila
Summary: Rory must wait two thousand years to apologize to the woman he loves…but can he ever forgive himself?  A series of mini-stories on the life of Auton-Rory.
1. The Dragon of Stonehenge

**The Lone Centurion**

General Summary:

Rory must wait two thousand years to apologize to the woman he loves…but can he ever forgive himself? A series of mini-stories on the life of Auton-Rory that alternates between seriousness and comic absurdity.

* * *

><p><strong>The Dragon of Stonehenge<strong>

Mini-Story Summary:

In a new universe, one with a dead Amy and a starless sky, Rory finds the universe has changed in more ways than he'd ever expected. He faces his first surprising and deadly enemy as Auton-Rory as he struggles to come to terms with his new existence.

* * *

><p>The first few days, he had lit torches to stave off the darkness. Then, having run out of both kindling and resolve, he just sat there in the musty half-light.<p>

And there, Rory waited.

Someplace between the darkness and light: that was Rory. Every person wages an internal battle between good and evil, but Rory's struggle was exceptional—every day, every second, he fought off his Nestene programming and embraced his human memories. He'd let his dark side seize control of him once; that had gotten Amy killed and left him to protect the Pandorica. Whatever happened, Rory would never let the programming take control of him again.

Of course, this sounds wholly dramatic and a tad angst-ridden. The whole truth was that Rory spent most of his time shooting Dalek statues with his hand-gun. Rory took aim at an eye-stalk and let a laser blast fly. The brittle creature shattered into a million satisfying bits.

"The best part is, I don't even need to make _pew-pew_ noises," said Rory. _Did I really just say that out loud?_ He thought. _My goodness, I'm losing my mind. Already_.

He decided to keep on talking anyway. It helped stave off the loneliness. Rory patted the Pandorica.

"Oh, Amy," he addressed the box. "What on Earth have I gotten us into? You're dead, stasis locked, and we're stuck in a twisted version of reality. Oh, yeah, and I'm a plastic android Roman. Huh, and I trained to be a nurse! What a long way I've come." He put his elbows on his knees and rested his head on his hands. He suspected he'd be in that pose rather often, what with two thousand years to wait and all.

Rory lapsed into silence, staring at the solitary mote of sunlight filtering down into the Underhenge chamber. "Amy," he muttered, "I hope you'll forgive me someday."

In the sky several million miles away, at the center of a sun that wasn't a sun, an unheard voice whispered the song of Rory's heart, over and over.

_I'm sorry, my love_, said the Song.

* * *

><p>Over the next year, Rory fell into a state of semi-consciousness. All the statues had long since been reduced to rubble, and Rory, running out of things to do, had taken to simply shutting down. It wasn't sleep by any means—more like the flitting half-dreams between sleep and wakefulness. It was a blessing, in a way, because he suspected he wouldn't like the dreams—or nightmares—he would undoubtedly experience anyway. On moonlit nights he'd sneak outside and stare into the starless sky, into the blackness, reminiscing about an almost-forgotten universe, a better universe, with star-strewn heavens. It reminded him that, even here, there was no such thing as total darkness; someplace, somewhere, there was a beacon of light and hope.<p>

This was one such night. A full moon beamed overhead, and Rory leaned against a stone slab, settling in for another quiet evening. He decided that, tonight, the best way to pass the time would be to engage the moon in a staring contest. So, he glared at it. The moon glared back. Then, a smile crept across his face as the shadow of a cloud inched its way across the moon's diameter.

Rory raised his fist in the air. "Ha! I win," he yelled into the silence.

"Ha! I win," came the echo.

"HELLO," boomed Rory.

"HELLO," cried the echo.

"ECHO!" shouted Rory.

"_SCREEEY_!"

Rory jumped to his feet, heart pounding mechanically. What _was_ that shriek? It was nothing he'd ever heard before. It didn't sound remotely human. He pulled his sword from his sheath and surveyed the nighttime landscape.

Nothing to the North? No. Nothing Southward either. Nor to the East, or to the West. From horizon to horizon, the land was devoid of anything larger than scrawny shrubbery. That left just one direction: up. Rory craned his neck in the direction of the sky. Overhead was nothing but blackness.

Wait, where was the moon?

As something swooped from the sky, knocking Rory unconscious, one last thought flit through his head: _I wish the Doctor were here_.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, Rory's chest was bothering him. It wasn't really pain, but he suspected it was the closest thing his Auton body could get to saying "Hello! Something's malfunctioning over here." Without opening his eyes, he poked around his chest. There was a long cut in his breastplate, and beneath it…was that <em>wiring<em> he felt poking out of him? He pushed it back inside and tied his cloak around the breach. He'd need to patch himself up later. As he secured the knot in his cloak, his elbow rammed against something hard. A tree trunk, perhaps? Wait, where was he? He opened his eyes.

And he quickly shut them again.

_No way_, he thought. _That's impossible. Completely absurd._

_Ah, but the universe is smaller now, and different,_ said a part of his subconscious in a Doctor-like tone. _Some things that should've happened never did, and some things happened that shouldn't have. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey and all that._

_Still, there's a bloomin' _pterosaur _in front of me!_

He opened his eyes once more. What he had thought was a tree trunk was actually the pterosaur's leg. Several meters to his left was another leg, and far beyond Rory's feet were a pair of batlike arm-wings. And a head. Not good; the head, from skull to beak tip, was at least two meters long, with a big bony crest on top that practically screamed, "I'm the king of the sky! Don't mess with _this_." So, a _Quetzalcoatlus_ then: a flying dinosaur that dwarfed the golden eagle with a wingspan as long as the average school bus. Quite possibly the largest flying creature Earth had ever witnessed. And, it had poked its beak underneath its arms and, upside-down, was staring straight at him with eyes the size of tea saucers.

_Okay_, thought Rory, _just back away slowly and everything'll be fine. It probably doesn't want to eat you. Probably._

He slowly crab-walked backwards. The dinosaur eyed his every move. He inched his arm backwards, shifted his weight, then moved his knee. Then the other arm, followed by its respective leg. And then he reached his hand out, and it touched nothing but air.

Rory craned his neck backwards to see what exactly the problem was.

"Oh," he said. "I'm on a cliff. I'm on the _edge_ of a cliff. With a pterosaur eyeing me. Hello, pterosaur! This isn't good. Not good at all."

The _Quetzalcoatlus_ cocked its head. Rory would have laughed at its bizarre pose if he hadn't been in such a bad situation.

"Um, well, you haven't eaten me yet," Rory addressed the creature. "How kind of you. But you did drag me all the way up here. That's odd."

"_SCREEEY_!" shrieked the _Quetzalcoatlus._

"That's not helpful," said Rory. "So, anyway, it seems like I have a choice: stay up here with you and risk getting becoming your midnight snack, or jump over the edge, drop a few hundred feet and pray for a soft landing."

The pterosaur took a menacing step forward.

"Heh, I lied. It's no choice at all," said Rory, pulling himself to his feet. "In the words of a certain someone, _Geronimo_!" And with that, he hurled himself into the abyss.

His ascent wasn't remotely the free-fall Rory had hoped for. He slid along the nearly vertical cliff face, stopping every thirty feet or so for a rough collision with whatever happened to be in his way. The worst part was the noise: every sickening crunch of plastic on stone made Rory cringe.

And then, after a veritable hailstorm of loosened pebbles rained around him, Rory reached the bottom. Alive. He groaned. As far as he could tell, his only real injury was the dislocation of his left shoulder. He could fix that, but his first priority was getting away from the pterosaur and back to the Pandorica. One problem, though: he had no idea where he was. He took a moment to survey the scenery and spotted what could be campfires to the East. That looked promising. Eastwards, then! Rory used his right arm to pull himself to his feet and took off running. Being an Auton certainly had its disadvantages, but the ability to run like an Olympic pro wasn't one of them. As he peeled off across the landscape, Rory couldn't resist a little smile.

* * *

><p>As Rory reached the campfires, he slowed his pace slightly. He could make out structures silhouetted against the firelight. Maybe he could stop and ask if the locals knew how to find Stonehenge. Upon reaching the village, his sprint dissolved to a slow walk. He raised his right hand in greeting and scanned the area for villagers. The place seemed to be deserted, but Rory knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving.<p>

"Hello?" he called cautiously. "Is anyone here?"

A little girl poked her head around one of the huts, looking excited, but then a pair of hands pulled her back.

"Get back, Rae!" said a female voice. "You know it's not safe."

"_Shh_," warned another.

The voices stopped as Rory grew closer. He carefully strode around the hut. As he rounded the corner, he saw two women and the girl cowering against the wall.

"It's OK," said Rory. "It's safe. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm, uh, new here."

Rae extricated herself from her mother's arms and ran up to tug at Rory's tunic. "I'm Rae. Guess what? I'm six and a half."

"By George, six and a half, huh?" said Rory, leaning down. "You're almost grown up already!"

Rae grinned proudly.

"Your name's George?" said Rae's mother. "I'm Kaie, and this is my sister Keelin. We call her Lin."

Rory opened his mouth to correct Kaie, and then shut it again. It wouldn't do to have his name floating around history. Who knew what might happen? He could pretend to be George. After all, he was already pretending to be human—how much more difficult could a false name be? So he smiled and nodded. "Yup. Nice to meet you."

Rae tapped Rory's knee. "Mr. George, are you a Roman?"

"Yeah, sort of," said Rory. Rae's eyes widened. "Why, is that a bad thing?"

Lin butted in. "No, no, you're just who we need."

Rory was skeptical. "Really? You're locals, and Romans are the invaders. I wouldn't think you'd be on the best of terms."

Kaie looked uncomfortable. "We're not. But things've been happening here, terrible things, and we need somebody to stop it."

It didn't take a genius to see the shiver that ran through the three girls. They were afraid. No, not just afraid; they were terrified. Rae looked up tearfully. "It's the dragon!"

"The dragon?" Rory was confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him. "Oh, you mean the _Quetzalcoatlus_! Oh, I met him. Big fellow, wings, grumpy disposition? That's him."

"You met the dragon?" asked Kaie. "You saw it, and survived?"

Rory indicated his dislocated shoulder. "It wasn't easy. It involved a cliff, a long fall, and a heck of a lot of running."

Kaie looked inquisitive. "Oh, you're injured! Come inside and we'll fix you up. Lin, could you watch Rae for me?" Lin scooped Rae into her arms. "Come along, Mr. George. We must talk."

* * *

><p>Rory was fortunate his Auton anatomy was so human-like, since as Kaie fingered Rory's shoulder, searching for his injury, she felt only what seemed to be bone, muscle, and skin. He stared at his toes, waving his feet through the air from his perch on the tall, crude wooden table, and tried to distract himself as Kaie prepared to snap his arm back into place.<p>

"All, right," said Kaie, "I'm going to press in three…two…"

CRACK! Rory stifled a scream.

"…one. There, done. It's much easier if I do it before you expect it. Less tension, you see? Now, can you move your shoulder?"

Rory gingerly swiveled his arm. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "Thanks. Also, I need some thread and a needle, if you don't mind. I have a cut that needs stitching."

"Of course," acquiesced Kaie. "I could stitch it for you."

"No!" said Rory, too quickly. "I mean, thanks for the offer, but I'd prefer to do it myself."

"Suit yourself." Kaie handed him some coarse string and a bone needle.

"It's sort of in a…sensitive spot," Rory lied. "D'you mind?" Kaie grudgingly turned her back, giving him much-needed privacy. He untied his cloak, exposing the slash in his chest and the wiring beneath.

As Rory patched his wound, he asked, "So, Kaie, how do you know about the 'dragon'?"

He heard Kaie sigh. "It's a sad story. Last year, my husband went scouting with seven other village men. We stayed behind, as per usual. When they were two days overdue from their journey, we became worried, and began to search for them. We combed the area for weeks before we found them…or what was left of them. Not far from the Great Stone Circle"—this could only mean Stonehenge—"we found piles of snapped and scarred bones. They'd been picked clean by something massive, something terrifying. Other searchers thought they saw a shadow high above the forests, the shadow of a winged beast silhouetted against the sky. Those brave souls who searched further for the beast disappeared without a trace. Since then, villagers who wander off alone sometimes vanish, and we've seen wild beasts and solid trees that were ripped to shreds by that horrifying creature. We live in constant fear of it."

Her voice sounded crestfallen. "Poor Rae; she was only five when her father died. I'm glad Lin came back to help me care for her. I'd never be able to raise Rae by myself, especially in these dark times. That's why I'm glad you came. I'd like nothing more than to see the thing that destroyed my family slain, and I think you're the man to do it, George. Slay the dragon for us."

Rory used his teeth to tie a knot in the string, then clipped it short. Finished, he pulled his tunic back on.

"Don't worry, the 'dragon' seems to find me particularly attractive for some reason," he said. "I think it'll come for me eventually, and when it does, I'll be prepared and very far away."

"No," said Kaie.

"I'm sorry?" said Rory, turning to face her. Kaie's eyes were burning cold with anger.

"Kill it here. I want to see it die," she said savagely.

Rory wasn't quite sure how to respond, so he acknowledged her request with a look and then left through the hut's door. The bond between lovers was agonizing to break, as Rory knew all too well. Kaie's situation made him grateful that his soon-to-be-wife was still alive. He'd save her, just like he'd save this village. This was a task he could not fail.

* * *

><p>Rory sat on a log and stared across the campfire at Rae. Rae stared back inquisitively as she spit-roasted some meat over the flames. Rory, however, wasn't hungry. He was never hungry.<p>

"Mr. George, are you going to fight the dragon?" she asked.

"I'll try," said Rory. "Listen, I'm sorry about your dad."

Rae nodded. "I miss daddy."

"I'm sure you do."

"Mummy says he's living up in the sky. She says there used to be lights in the sky. She calls them 'stars.' Daddy's like a star. He's high in the sky too, and even though we can't see him now, we know he's there."

"You know what? I think she's right. And then, when the stars come back, your Daddy'll come back too."

"You think so?" asked Rae. "When will the stars come back?"

"Not soon enough," said Rory. "They're waiting, you see, for a man to come and fix them."

"What sort of man? Like you?" asked Rae. "You fix things. You're going to get rid of the dragon."

"No, not like me," said Rory. "A different man. A Doctor. He'll fix everything. The broken stars, the dragon, your Dad—none of that was supposed to happen. He'll put it right, you wait and see."

Rae began nibbling at her dinner. "I can't wait."

Rory sighed. "Me neither."

Little Rae ate in silence for the next few minutes, but Rory could tell she was forming a question. It finally burst out of her.

"Mr. George, Mommy always said the Romans were bad, bad people. Why is she helping you? Why did you come?"

Rory took a deep breath. It wasn't a particularly easy question to answer. "Rae, your mother loves you very much. She wants to protect you and Lin. The Romans sometimes do bad things, but the 'dragon' is much worse. Your mother trusts me because I can protect you, and I will."

"But why'd you come here? Were you chasing the dragon?"

"No, it was chasing me."

"Why?"

"Because it was hungry."

Rae stopped eating and looked at her half-consumed chunk of meat. "I get hungry too, but I don't eat people."

Rory smiled and pulled her into his arms. "That's because you're a little girl, you silly. Little girls don't eat people."

Rae giggled as Rory patted her on the head. "Mr. George, can you tell me a story? Mommy tells the same ones over and over. I want to hear something new. Please?" She looked at him with enormous puppy eyes. "I promise I'll be good, and then I'll go right to bed."

As Rae snuggled into Rory's lap, he gathered his thoughts. He had a lot of stories to choose from. "All right, I'll tell you a true story," he agreed.

"One day, a long time from now, a little girl was born," he began. "She had no parents, no family except her old aunt who took care of her. One day they moved to a big new house, far away from all her friends. She felt lonely, and desperately wished for someone to play with."

Rae fidgeted with excitement as Rory narrated the arrival of a man from the sky and his magical blue box, and the adventures the little girl had with her new friend. Tears welled up in her eyes after the man left the girl and didn't come back, and nobody believed her story. He was an imaginary friend, nothing more, they said. She was harassed and bullied her entire childhood.

"Mr. George, this is a really sad story," said Rae.

"I'm just getting to the good part," promised Rory. "You see, the girl—a woman now—was beginning to doubt she'd ever seen the man, that she'd been imagining things. But then, the man in his magical box returned!" Rae grinned as Rory recounted their next adventure, and shivered when he described Prisoner Zero. And the next time the man came, the man took the girl with her, and they traveled the stars together in the blue box.

"This isn't a real story," said Rae. "You're making it up. There are no such things as magical boxes."

"Aren't there?" asked Rory. "I have a box too, you know. A box I have to protect."

"Why? What's so special about it?"

"It's got something in it worth protecting."

"What, like a treasure?" asked Rae.

"The most valuable treasure imaginable."

"Really? I'd like to see sometime," said Rae, closing her eyes.

"You're going to sleep?" asked Rory. "Don't you want to hear the end of the story?"

"Does the story have an end?"

"No, not really," admitted Rory.

"Good. I like it better without an ending."

"Why's that?"

"The girl gets to do what she's wanted to do for her whole life. She's exploring the universe. I don't want to see it end. It'll be too sad."

"Some endings are happy."

"But at the end, everybody always dies."

Rory was about to contradict her, and opened his mouth, then stopped his train of thought and changed directions. "That doesn't mean there aren't happy endings," he said softly.

Rae didn't answer. She was sound asleep.

Rory slowly pulled Rae into his arms and stood. "Let's get you to bed, kiddo." He took a deep breath and spoke to her still form. "Rae, I've learned lots of things during my life, and you know what? Nothing's too wonderful to be true."

* * *

><p>Kaie offered Rory her spare bed mat, but Rory refused. He wouldn't sleep even if he could. Worry continually gnawed at his mind. If the pterosaur pursued him, he would put Rae, Kaie, and Lin in danger. Whatever Kaie wanted, he couldn't stay here. So, he sat before the hut's front door until he was sure the villagers were asleep, and then stole towards the forest.<p>

"Where're you off to?"

Rory turned on his heel to see Kaie, hand on her hips, looking both impertinent and hurt.

"I'm…uh…" he looked at his feet. "I was going to leave."

"Where?"

"Someplace far enough to keep your family safe."

Kaie moved closer. "Even though it was against my expressed wishes?"

Rory nodded.

Kaie smiled. "You're a good man, Mr. George."

"But?"

"But if you're going, then I'm coming with you."

"And what about Rae?"

"Lin'll look after her for me."

Rory wanted to say no, that Kaie should stay behind and care for her daughter, but the look on Kaie's face stopped the words in his throat. He nodded wordlessly.

* * *

><p>They were in the open field when it happened. Somewhere overhead, a primal screech echoed around the landscape. Rory pulled his sword from its sheath with a metallic <em>ching<em>. Kaie crouched.

"Keep your eyes open, and stay down!" yelled Rory.

Kaie obliged. "George!" she warned. "Above y—"

Rory didn't hear the rest of the sentence. For the second time that day, the _Quetzalcoatlus_, unseen, seized him in its massive claws and dragged Rory into the air. Rory struggled to move his arm, and then, with a swift stroke, stabbed his sword into the pterosaur's foot. With an almighty shriek, it released him.

"George!" came Kaie's yell.

Rory plummeted through the air, twisting himself as best he could, trying to fall feet-first. Just when he felt he'd never hit the ground, he did. His knees buckled as his boots met dirt, but despite his wobbling, he remained upright.

"Get to the forest!" shouted Rory. "It can't follow us in there!" He could see the trees, within sprinting distance, and began to run as fast as he could. The pterosaur continued to shriek overhead, but both he and Kaie dove among the forest trunks without incident.

"What now?" panted Kaie.

"Not sure," said Rory. "It's not going to leave us, I think. For some reason, it's after me."

"And you don't know why?"

"No, no idea."

"Well, we're trapped," observed Kaie. "We can't leave the forest without being attacked, but we can't just stay here either."

"Well, do you have a plan?"

"I thought you'd be the one with the plan!" sputtered Kaie. "You took us out here. You just fell thirty meters and landed on your feet. Now you're telling me you're _clueless_?" Kaie sounded betrayed.

"Sorry. Just hush, all right? Let me think."

"You'd better," huffed Kaie.

Rory ignored the implied threat and began to pace. _What would the Doctor do?_ he wondered. _He doesn't have a sword, or a hand-gun. He doesn't even need them. His best weapon is his mind. So, think! What would he do?_

_Well, start by analyzing everything_, said the Doctor-y part of Rory's subconscious. _Something's out of place, and Rory Williams hasn't noticed. What did you miss?_

"Any ideas?" snapped Kaie.

"_Shh_!" hissed Rory.

_You just missed it_, muttered his subconscious.

"What?" barked Rory.

"What?"

"Sorry, did I say that aloud?" asked Rory. "Oops. Anyway, hush. I'm on the verge of something."

"Yeah, you're on the verge of _death_," quipped Kaie.

"I said, _hush_," said Rory. Then he stopped in his tracks. "No! Wait, don't. Say something."

"Like what?"

"That. What language were you speaking?"

"Celtic, of course. So are you. We're both speaking Celtic. Which is a bit odd, isn't it? I didn't think many Romans bothered to learn the native tongue."

"You see, that's the thing," remarked Rory. "I don't speak a word of Celtic. To me, you're speaking English."

"What's that, a disease?"

Rory ignored that; he had nearly solved the puzzle. "So, if we understand each other, that means the TARDIS is still translating for me. It does that, you know. Maybe it's someplace nearby, or maybe it's something to do with my programming. Either way, I speak Celtic…so what other languages do I know? Or maybe, just maybe, I can speak things that aren't languages at all."

"I'm confused," said Kaie.

"Don't worry, that's how I feel whenever the Doctor's around. Anyway, if you can understand me, I bet that means the 'dragon' can too. It knows what I'm saying! And that, you see, is the key to the puzzle. Because what I didn't understand is, why would the pterosaur be after me? I'm not exactly an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"What? Why not?"

_Because I'm a lump of plastic_, thought Rory. "It doesn't matter," he said aloud. "But, I've got a solution! Stay here." And he sheathed his sword and strode into the open field.

"Get back here, you crazy Roman," called Kaie. "You're insane!"

"Maybe so," said Rory, striding forward, "but the pterosaur didn't attack me; it _collected_ me, took me to a place it thought was safe. It didn't want to eat me at all, because it _understood_ me." He stopped. "So, it'll probably hear me when I say GET DOWN HERE!"

And, as much to Rory's surprise as to his satisfaction, the dragon swooped from the sky to land in a magnificent heap before Rory's feet.

"Wow, that actually worked," said Rory before trying to assume a confident composure. "Imagine that! The king of the sky, and it's obeying my every word." The _Quetzalcoatlus_ eyed him curiously. "Mind you, it's also eaten dozens of people. Not exactly docile, are you?" The "dragon" cocked its head.

"How did you do that?" asked Kaie, still hiding in the underbrush.

"It's the words," said Rory. "The Doctor always says that words are the best weapons. Imagine this poor pterosaur, far outside its time and completely alone. It needs some sort of companionship, just like you or I. So, when it heard my voice, a voice it could understand…it simply obeyed, because it's been such a long, lonely time. As odd as it may sound, it wants a friend." As he said it, the idea sounded bizarre. But, then, everything needed companionship, from man-eating pterosaurs to…plastic androids. Well, then, maybe this idea wasn't so far-fetched.

The _Quetzalcoatlus_ panted in front of him. Wait…_panted_? Rory checked to make sure. Yep, its massive chest was heaving in and out as if it had just completed a marathon. Why would it be panting?

"_Ohh_," exclaimed Rory, "I understand now. You're far outside your time, which means you're also far outside your environment. You're used to a high-oxygen atmosphere, I bet. That's how you dinosaurs were able to get so big. But this time and place have a much lower O2 concentration. You're dying, am I right? You thought it was hunger, so you ate more. More people. But you just need oxygen! And I think I know where to find it."

"I'm completely lost," noted Kaie.

"Oh, I'm monologuing, aren't I?" asked Rory. "Sorry, but I'm on a roll. OK, dragon, listen up! I can help you, but you first must promise to never eat another human again. You agree?"

The _Quetzalcoatlus_ blinked.

"All right, that's probably the best response I'm going to get," said Rory. "Now, you're capable of long-distance flight, so I'm going to send you on a long-distance journey. There's a place far to the East with enough oxygen to keep you alive. Just fly over the ocean—the "big water"—with your right wing towards the rising sun, until you get to a huge green forest with incredible trees. The rainforest. Lots of trees, lots of O2. You'll be safe there. Just…steer clear of humans, OK?"

Another blink.

"Great! Weirdest. Conversation. Ever." Rory turned to Kaie. "Anyway, one last thing. This is where I leave you. Do you know how to find Stonehenge? The ring of stones?"

"South," said Kaie. "Is that where you're going? Now? With…_that_?" She nodded towards the pterosaur.

"Yes," answered Rory. "This is where I leave you. Thanks for everything." With a deep breath, Rory clambered onto the pterosaur's back.

For once, Kaie was at a loss for words.

"Have a good life, then," he said.

And then, the pterosaur issued a fierce cry, arched its neck, and launched itself into the air.

As quickly as he had entered Kaie's life, the Roman was gone.

* * *

><p>Not long after his departure, stories began to spread. They spoke of a kind warrior named George and how he'd unflinchingly subdued the fearsome dragon. A few villagers swore they saw him wheeling overhead atop his winged steed, and a few more thought they glimpsed the beast soaring eastward just as the first rays of dawn burst over the horizon.<p>

But, in one lonely village, Rae awoke after a long night's sleep and ran outside to greet her new Roman friend. She searched every corner of the village before her mother said that the mysterious man had left with the dragon the night before, and he wouldn't come back. And for years afterward, as the girl became a woman, she would gaze southward, towards the Stone Circle, tears rimming her eyes. She'd remember the man, the guardian of a magical box, with all his glorious stories, and how, in a single evening, he'd changed the course of her life forever.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note:<span>

Thanks for reading! As always, if you liked this story, tell me; if you didn't, tell me why! I welcome your input.

So, aside from putting pterosaurs in the 100's AD, most of the historical and science-y stuff I used is actually accurate—for example, the _Quetzalcoatlus_ actually had a wingspan of ~40 feet, thrived in high-oxygen environments, etc. Whether or not it would eat or carry humans if given the chance is something we'll just have to speculate. But, I figured I might as well engage in that age-old Who tradition of sprinkling science into the fantasy! So, I hope you learned something.

Also, congratulations if you picked up on the whole St.-George-slaying-the-dragon gag!

I discovered that it's very hard to inject humor into a story in which the Doctor isn't actually present, especially in a situation this dark and potentially angst-y. Sure, I used a serious tone at times, but I tried to keep the angst to a minimum to prevent you, the reader, from clawing your eyes out. You're welcome?

Anyway, this isn't the end! More's coming soon, don't worry. Plenty of ideas are brewing in my head…but something tells me that we haven't seen the end of Rae yet.

Until then, Allons-y!


	2. Ghosts of the Past

**Ghosts of the Past**

Mini-Story Summary: Faced with a Roman invasion, Auton Rory is forced to infiltrate the ranks of the legion to discover why the soldiers are so interested in the Pandorica.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>: Whoa! I'm amazed by the response I got to the last mini-story. Hello to everyone, from Germany to Grenada, America to Australia! Thanks for reading! It's really amazing to watch my words travel the world even though I'm stuck at school ticking off the days 'til finals. Makes me feel a bit like the Doctor. :)

Anyway, here's my new mini-story, again researched with the somewhat dubious help of Wikipedia. Oh, Internet, you are both my greatest asset and my greatest vice…but, anyway, I learned a bit about British/Roman history while writing this, and I hope you do as well!

As always, if you have anything to say, please leave a review. I love feedback!

* * *

><p><span>118 AD<span>

Sixteen long years had passed since Rory last enjoyed human company. He had spent most of this period sitting next to the Pandorica. To pass the time, he would reminisce and have imaginary conversations with Amy while staring at the solitary sunbeam traverse the Pandorica chamber, disappear into the night, and reappear the next morning. Rory refused to block the entrance to the Underhenge, despite the fact that the Pandorica would be much safer if he did. To him, the sunlight filtering down from the entrance overhead was his last remaining connection to the outside world, a link he could never sever.

This was a decision he would deeply regret.

Sometimes Rory stayed stone-still for months on end, save for a faint moving of the eyes and the odd unmuffled yawn. Every so often a spider would spin its web off Rory's earlobe or lap and then wither and die, just like practically everything else in the Underhenge. Dust piled on Rory's nose and hair, and mildew ate at his tunic.

For all intents and purposes, Rory Williams was dead to the world.

* * *

><p>Marcus trudged dejectedly through the barren landscape, each foot placed diligently in his comrade Titus' footsteps. Suddenly he felt a jolting pain in his heel.<p>

"Hold on, mate, I've got a stone in my sandal," he said, tugging off his shoe.

"Quit holding us up, Marcus," grumbled Titus, stopping nevertheless. "We've got scouting to do."

"Aw, lay off it," said Marcus, rummaging around in his sandal for the offending stone. "You know as well as I do that _Optio_ Arsenius gave us this job just to get us outta the way. There's nothing out here 'cept dirt and rocks." He pulled the painful perpetrator out of his shoe. "Mind you, very oddly shaped rocks."

"Come again?" Titus leaned over Marcus' shoulder to get a better look. "What on Earth? That's no stone…that's a finger!"

"No, it's a stone, look!" Marcus tapped it against another rock as proof.

"A stone finger, then."

"You reckon it's from a statue?"

"Nah, look closely!" said Titus. "The finger's got a bloomin' _hangnail_. Nobody carves hangnails onto statues. Why bother? And, it's not marble or any stone I recognize. No, this isn't a statue. It's something else."

Marcus stood and surveyed the area, and promptly spotted something. "Titus! Right there. You see it?" He pointed towards something half-buried in mud.

Titus strode over and picked it up. He cleaned it off with a corner of his tunic, then held it at arm's length, scrutinizing it. Then he recognized it, and squealed and dropped it back in the mud. "It's…it's…" he stuttered.

"What?" Marcus asked.

"A _head_."

At Titus' feet, the stone face glared emptily into the overcast sky. And there was something else. Was that a crest upon his helmet?

"By heaven, he's a Roman soldier too!" said Marcus.

"_Was_ a Roman," corrected Titus. "Have you heard the stories?"

"Stories?" Marcus looked befuddled. "No."

"Well, a few scouts of the _Valeria Victrix_ legion were out investigating this same area. They encountered a cohort camping near the circle of stones. That in itself wasn't remarkable. What _was_ remarkable was that this cohort—and its entire legion—was under the command of Cleopatra. Which was, 'course, impossible, 'cause she died ages ago! The scouts scuttled off to tell their commander, and when they returned, the legion had simply vanished. Several _centuriae_ searched for the Lost Legion over the years. Nothing…until now. You know what? I think you just got the last remains of the Lost Legion stuck in your shoe."

Marcus paled. "But…what happened? Why'd they disappear? How could an entire legion turn to stone?"

Titus began walking towards the ring of stones in the distance. "I dunno. Wanna find out?"

"Not really," said Marcus.

"Too bad. Let's go."

Without further ado, Titus and Marcus began trudging towards Stonehenge.

* * *

><p>Once among Stonehenge's weathered arches, the soldiers stopped to catch their breaths.<p>

"Titus, why don't we head back now? There's nothing here," remarked Marcus.

"Chickening out, Marcus?" teased Titus. "We haven't even looked around yet."

"I've seen all I want to see," retorted Marcus.

"Come on, aren't you even the slightest bit curious?"

"Well, sure," admitted Marcus, "But caution supersedes curiosity any day of the week."

"Fine, then," Titus huffed. He began poking around the monoliths. "Stay here if you want. I'm gonna explore."

"What, and leave me all alone?" Marcus fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Yup," said Titus, peering behind an arch.

Marcus sighed. "All right, you win. I'm coming too."

Titus grinned. "Great! Look what I just found." He indicated a rectangular hole cut into the bedrock, in which a set of stone stairs descended into impenetrable darkness. "You first," he announced.

Marcus drew his _gladius_. It couldn't hurt to be cautious, and in any case, few things assured the Roman more than a solid blade in his fist. "Fine, whatever," he said, "but it's good to know that if anything sneaks up behind us, it'll get you first." He grinned and, before Titus could open his mouth in protest, Marcus jumped down the stairs.

"I can't see a thing," announced Marcus.

"Me neither. Wait a few minutes and our eyes'll adjust. In the meantime, try not to trip on anything."

"Easier said than done," noted Marcus, but he stopped and leaned a hand against a wall to steady himself as he adjusted to the darkness. "Titus, can I ask you a question?"

"No." Titus sounded sarcastic, so Marcus went ahead anyway.

"Are you superstitious?" he asked.

"Wait, what?"

"Do you believe in ghosts and wraiths and other…stuff?"

"Would you mind asking me that question when we're not in a dark, creepy, unexplored tunnel with who-knows-what lurking in every corner?" asked Titus.

"Sorry," said Marcus, "I only ask because I see something weird over there, and if I were superstitious I certainly wouldn't want to go anywhere near it."

"Oh, come _on_," said Titus, dodging around Marcus to take the lead. "Let's take a look."

The two advanced into the tunnel, which widened into a cave as they progressed. In the exact center of the cavern stood a square box, taller than Titus and _far_ taller than Marcus. Strange round patterns were etched into its sides. An ancient language, perhaps? The box reeked of something mysterious and otherworldly.

"Spooky," whispered Marcus.

Titus edged closer and began circling the box. "I wonder if there's anything inside it," he said.

"I dunno," said Marcus, "but there's something _outside_ of it. Come see! It's another one of those stone soldiers. And it's intact!"

Titus shuffled over to his comrade. Marcus stood next to a statue-like Roman, a Centurion by the look of its helmet. The soldier sat on a ledge, head in its hands, next to the Pandorica. Cobwebs and dust caked its body.

"I wonder what it was doing," asked Marcus.

"Staring into space, by the look of it," commented Titus.

"Very funny," said Marcus.

"What's funny?"

"Your joke," explained Marcus. "Obviously. Are you all right? You sound different."

"Huh?" grunted Titus. "I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did," countered Marcus. "You asked what was funny."

"No, I didn't!" said Titus.

"You most certainly did," Marcus argued.

"No, _I_ did."

Marcus looked down at the frozen soldier.

The soldier looked back.

Marcus squealed. Titus yelled and bolted up the staircase like a frightened rabbit, with Marcus close behind.

Rory sneezed and began brushing off cobwebs. He would have issued a warning to the pair of scouts had they not already disappeared, and he'd already made quite an impression. Rory distinctly heard the faint echo of one soldier yelling for his mother. Then he stood and stretched for the first time in months.

Rory knew that these scouts were merely the first wave in a flood of Roman inquisition. Next time, it'd take more than his unexpected entry into their conversation to fend off the next round of intruders. Rory would need to prepare, and to do so, he would need information. To find information, he'd have to rejoin the outside world. Time to do some scouting of his own.

He patted the Pandorica one last time. "I'll be back, Amy," he assured the box. "I promise."

And then he adjusted his helmet and strode at last into the glorious sunlight.

* * *

><p>"…and then, the statue <em>moved<em>! It looked right back at Marcus, I tell you. And what's more, I could swear it was _smiling_!" narrated Titus. "So, we made a dignified and orderly retreat to report back to you."

"Perhaps the movement was a trick of the light," countered _Optio_ Arsenius. The military officer looked skeptical. "Or an overactive mind."

"With respect, _Optio_, no," said Marcus. "We both quite clearly saw the stone soldier move."

Arsenius' shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter. "All right, then, _Pedes_ Marcus and Titus. Thank you for your report. Dismissed."

As the pair returned to their tents, Marcus ribbed his comrade. "'A dignified and orderly retreat,' you say?" he chuckled. "About as 'orderly' as a cattle stampede. And 'dignified'…? The only thing louder than my pounding heart was you screaming 'Mummy! Mummy!'"

"No, you must have misheard me," huffed Titus. "I was definitely calling 'Marcus! Marcus!' I was worried about you."

"Yeah, sure," shrugged Marcus. "Keep telling yourself that."

Titus' face was as crimson as his tunic. "Don't rub it in."

Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Hey, well, see you tomorrow morning, then. I'm going to sleep." He ducked into his tent.

"Bye, then," muttered Titus to the closed tent flap. He strode over to the adjacent tent and collapsed onto his makeshift bed in an inglorious heap. There, face-down in the sheets, Titus shut his eyes and tried to forget the events of the day.

"Um…hello?" came a voice next to him.

Titus bolted upright and looked to his left to see a new soldier sitting on a new bed, staring at him.

"Who're you?" asked Titus, far too gruffly.

"Sorry," apologized the man. "I'm new here, and you had a spare spot in your tent. My name's Rory."

"Rory? Is that a nickname or something?"

"Yeah…" said Rory. "Short for Roranicus."

"Well, Rory, you look a bit familiar," said Titus. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

A smile played at the corner of Rory's mouth, then promptly vanished. "I just got here," he said.

"Right. Probably not, then," concluded Titus. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew Rory, somehow. He dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Sorry. It's just been a bit of a weird day."

"Tell me about it," muttered Rory. "Anyway, when's dinner?"

"In about an hour," said Titus. "Wake me up then, will you?" And he flopped back into his bed sheets and was snoring ten seconds later.

* * *

><p>The dinner itself was nothing special; even though he had no need of food, Rory nibbled at some meat and choked down some tasteless gruel. What was unique, though, was the company. The men around him provided a valuable source of information, which Rory was determined to collect. So he turned to Titus and brought up the subject.<p>

"Hey, what do you know about Stonehenge?" Not subtle, but still to the point.

Titus looked taken aback for a moment, then took a breath. "Well, there's something unnatural about that place. The Lost Legion disappeared there ages ago, people say. My friend Marcus and I dug up a few stone body parts nearby. No idea how they got there. The locals steer clear of it. Downright eerie, I tell ya." Rory noticed that Titus neglected to mention their earlier encounter at the Pandorica. Titus was embarrassed, most likely. Not many people would believe a story like that. "But if you want to know more," continued Titus, "Ask _her_."

Rory looked up from his meal. There, passing the cooking fire bearing a basket of leafy produce, was a woman in her early twenties, with waist-long braided brown hair and an apron belted round her waist. She headed towards the chef's tent.

"She's a local," explained Titus. "Seen her 'round here for the last week or so. I don't know her name, but she's full of stories. 'Course, she's not hard on the eyes either, so campfire conversations tend to be interesting."

"All right then," said Rory, shoving his gruel towards Titus. "You can have that. I'll be back."

"No you won't," countered Titus with a chuckle.

"Eh, it's not like that," said Rory.

"Never is," muttered Titus sarcastically, spooning up some gruel.

Rory ignored him and ducked behind the cook's tent as the woman emerged from it, empty-handed, and headed towards the commander's quarters. What business did she have with the officer? Rory could only think of a few explanations, and information was at the top of the list. So, as she entered the lodgings, Rory edged around the camp, dodged the cooking fires, and snuck up unseen towards the tent's back. Above the crackling of burning wood he could make out a faint conversation issuing from the quarters.

"…I know it sounds like utter hogwash, commander, but that was their report," came the _Optio_'s voice. "A statue, moving, they said. Scared the living daylights out of them."

"It sounds like a pair of overactive imaginations to me," said a voice that could only be the commander's.

The lady interjected. "I know it sounds unbelievable, but I assure you, it's true. Stories speak of a man who guards a box beneath Stonehenge, which is said to contain an invaluable treasure."

"What sort of treasure?" The commander's voice was edged with what was, unmistakably, greed. "Gold? Jewels? Money? Or something…less tangible, perhaps. A gift from the Gods." Rory could only imagine the gleeful expression on the officer's face. "Something worth spending a lifetime protecting."

Their voices dissolved into excited whispers, and for the next few minutes Rory failed to catch any meaningful snippets of conversation. He was so absorbed in his eavesdropping that he failed to notice a tapping on his shoulder.

"Oi!" barked someone behind him. He jumped and flipped around to see the brown-haired woman, arms crossed, glaring deep into his eyes. "Listening in, are we?"

"How'd you know?" asked Rory sheepishly.

"Next time, don't eavesdrop while standing between a campfire and a tent. Your shadow was falling on the cloth. I could see your profile, clear as day."

"Thanks. I'll remember that the next time I feel like spying." And Rory turned to leave.

The woman grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round to face her. "Not so fast, you. What's your name? Rank? Superior?"

"I don't answer to you. You're not in the military."

"Just tell me."

Rory dug through his mind for a throwaway name. The pterosaur incident sprung to mind. "My name's George."

"Your new friend says you're called Rory. So, to whom did you lie, him or me?"

"You're spying on me?" accused Rory.

"Which makes us even," the woman retorted.

Rory laughed. "Guess so. Well, in a sense, neither name's a lie. To some people I'm George, and to others, I'm Rory."

"Some folk tales speak of a Roman named George," said the woman, eyeing him.

"I'm sure there are stories about a bloke named Rory too. Doesn't mean they're talking about me. And don't I look a little young to be the source of a folk tale?"

"Yes, you do. But looks can be deceiving," observed the woman.

"But how old would that make me?" countered Rory. "Forty, fifty…or older. It would take a miracle to disguise that age."

"As somebody told me long ago, nothing's too wonderful to be true."

Before the shock of realization hit Rory, the woman who could only be Rae had already vanished.

* * *

><p>Rory returned to Titus' tent but, as usual, didn't sleep. Instead, he lay in his sheets and stared upwards. He hadn't seen Rae in sixteen years. She'd recognized him instantly, of course, as he looked exactly the same, right down to the Roman armor, as he had nearly two decades ago. In that time, Rae had grown up, and proven to be a resourceful woman. Still, the question remained: why was Rae in the Roman camp, spreading stories about the Pandorica? Rory didn't know, but his instinct told him that Amy was in danger.<p>

By the time dawn broke, Rory had escaped the camp and hiked back to Stonehenge. Something was profoundly wrong. A swath of dirt ten feet wide had been churned and pressed as if a large object had been dragged along the ground, and the stone circle was surrounded by sandal- and hoof-prints. The Romans had been here, with their workhorses and foot soldiers, and made off with something large and heavy. Heart pounding, Rory ran into the Underhenge.

The Pandorica was gone.

* * *

><p>Titus had slept poorly that night. He suspected he had a grass allergy, but even though he had very little congestion, he simply could not fall asleep. Images swam through his mind, flitting back and forth, taunting him. Stonehenge, the box, and the stone man guarding it…and the eyes that bored straight into his soul, eyes that were alive even though they shouldn't be. Eyes, so oddly familiar. He'd seen them somewhere else, he was sure of it. And what about his new tent-mate? Roranicus was familiar somehow, just like the stone Roman. They both had the same eyes. Oh, and the same helmet. The same pointy nose. The same…everything.<p>

_Gods above!_ thought Titus. _He's the stone man. He's found me._

He jolted from bed to find the dawn light poking through the tent cloth and the sheets beside him empty.

Titus ran across the path and shook Marcus out of bed. "Marcus! The stone man. He came back!"

"Titus, you were dreaming," Marcus grumbled groggily.

"No, I tell you. You know Roranicus, the man who ate with us last night?"

Marcus jumped up as he realized. "Oh. _Oh_. OH! He's the stone soldier! By the gods!"

"He's gone. A bad omen, I say. We'd best find him, before he finds us."

Marcus fetched his _gladius_. "Come on, then. Let's go hunting."

* * *

><p>Rory stood outside Rae's tent and yelled. "Get out here!" he hollered. "We're going to talk. NOW!"<p>

Rae stumbled through the tent flap, already dressed and slightly muddied, which confirmed Rory's suspicions.

"You told the commander about my box."

"So?" shrugged Rae.

"You told him there was treasure inside. He's a greedy, underpaid soldier. _Of course _he was going to go dig it out from beneath Stonehenge! And you _helped_ him do it last night, hence the mud on your dress. How could you _do_ that to me?"

"What I don't understand is _how_ you did it," countered Rae. "Sixteen years, and you haven't aged a day. How?"

"If you ignore time, time ignores you."

"No it doesn't," countered Rae. "You can run and hide from time all you want, but it always catches up to you."

"Is that what this is?" stormed Rory. "Stealing the Pandorica? Is this your idea of 'getting even' for something I don't even know about?"

"Oh, don't feign ignorance," said Rae. "You know perfectly well what you did. The dragon killed my father. You swore revenge. And then, far from slaying the beast, you hopped on its back and rode it off into the night. You _let it live_."

Rory was shocked. "You're mad at me because I wouldn't _murder_? You hate me because I'd rather save life than end it? I don't believe this. So you stole the Pandorica, the only thing in the world I care about, in _vengeance!_ _Unbelievable_. The dragon wasn't a monster, but _you_ are."

Rae stood in stunned silence. Rory could almost see the flood of emotions welling up inside her—anger, loathing…and pity? She took a deep breath and sounded resigned. "They took the Pandorica to the nearest port. They're sailing it back to Rome."

Rory ran off in pursuit of the wagon tracks, leaving Rae alone once more.

"No. No, you're not disappearing again. Not this time," muttered Rae, and, gathering her dress in her hands, she sprinted after the distant Roman.

* * *

><p>It wasn't remotely difficult to follow the deep-dug wagon tracks. Rory raced along the path into a forest so deep that the morning sun was invisible behind the thick canopy. His heart beat at a pace to match. If he lost the Pandorica now, if he lost Amy…he couldn't bear to think about it. So he quickened his pace.<p>

Not quick enough. Although Rory dared not look back, he could hear the rhythmic drumming of approaching hoof-beats. Roman cavalry, no doubt. As fast as he ran, the horses grew closer. When they sounded no farther than twenty meters behind him, Rory could ignore them no longer. He stopped and spun on his heels to face his pursuers.

Five horses and their well-armored riders ground to a halt before him. He looked at their faces. "Titus?" asked Rory. "What's this about?"

"Put your sword on the ground."

Rory pulled his _gladius_ from its sheath and stuck it point-down in the dirt.

"Now, keep your hands where I can see them. You're under arrest, Roranicus, or whatever your name is."

"Uh…why?"

"One, the impersonation of a Roman soldier. Two, the mysterious disappearance of the Lost Legion. Three, you scared us."

"One, I'm not pretending to be a Roman soldier—I am a Roman soldier. Sort of. Two, I had nothing to do with the disappearance of the Legion. They turned to stone all by themselves. Footprints of the never-weres and all that. I just happened to be in the vicinity. Three…well, guilty as charged."

"What are you?" asked Titus. "Marcus here reckons you're some sort of spirit. Demetrius thinks you're a demon. I know that whatever you are, it doesn't bode well."

"Don't give him ideas," said Marcus. "Bet he'll shoot us with fire from his eyes or something."

Well, that certainly gave Rory an idea. He raised his arms.

"No, not my eyes. Will my hands do?"

His palm flopped open, revealing the gun hidden within. With no hesitation, he fired a warning shot into the sky and another into the ground in front of the soldiers, which exploded in a gloriously satisfying fireball.

The horses bucked and screeched, and the men grimaced in fear.

"Now, this is your one and only warning. Turn around and head back to camp. Don't follow me, or have anyone else tail me. I'll be watching. Any funny business, and I'll fire. That's a promise, Titus and whatever-your-name-is. Go."

With that, Titus and his company circled back the way they had come, churning dust in their wake. Rory, smiling slightly with his small victory, continued on his journey in a headlong sprint.

* * *

><p>The next three hours were a blur of forest, field, and footpath as Rory raced towards the ocean. The sun inched its way higher into the sky, and was nearly at its zenith when Rory caught whiff of the salty sea spray. He could see a mast in the distance. Almost there.<p>

Still, something was wrong with the landscape before him. There was something missing. He could see the ground a short distance before him, and the far-off mast, but what was in between? Rory dug his heels into the dirt and skidded to a halt.

Just in time, too, because no further than a few meters in front of him was the edge of a cliff.

Rory cautiously peeked over the edge. Dozens of meters below him, ocean waves lapped at the rock face. And, about half a kilometer away, the stern of a ship floated towards the horizon, mocking him.

There was only one option. Jump.

Rory pulled off his armor; it would only weigh him down. Just as he was kicking off his boots, he heard the sound of someone dismounting a horse.

"I don't hate you."

Rory looked up. Rae stared back at him, leashing the borrowed horse's bridle to a tree.

"What?"

Rae drew closer. "About last time. I don't hate you for what you did."

"Then why'd you do it?" asked Rory. "Why did you take the Pandorica?"

Rae stared at her feet, but not before Rory caught a glimpse of the guilty expression on her face. "I was mad at you," she admitted. "It wasn't really about you letting the dragon live. I was angry because you came, and told me fantastic, amazing stories, and in that one night you became the best friend I ever had. You showed me something _wonderful_. Then, you just left. No goodbye, no note; you just exited my life on top of a fantastic dragon off on another wondrous adventure, leaving me, a six-year-old, to grow up living a life that could never measure up to yours."

"I didn't realize—"

"No, you didn't," Rae cut Rory off. "So don't apologize. It's all my fault. Juvenile jealousy run amok. You wanted to protect your box, and a tiny immature part of me was mad that you'd chosen the box over me. I wanted to take the box away so there'd be nothing between us. Well, not in _that_ way. Just as friends, you know? Like that story you told me, long ago, about the girl who waited for the man with the magical box so they could travel the stars together." Rae took a deep breath. "To me, you're the man with the box."

Rory stood silent for a minute, forming his thoughts. "You keep asking me why I look the same."

Rae nodded wordlessly.

"Well, something's…wrong…with me. I don't heal the way I should, and I don't age the way I should. The man in the magical box, the Doctor, he can fix me. Until then, I've got to stay with my box, with the Pandorica, until the Doctor comes. And look!" He beckoned towards the distant ship. "The Pandorica's out there, in the ocean, and I've got to swim after it, because everything I want to be, my last hope, is in that box. You, though, have a future _here_. You live in a beautiful village, with a beautiful family, and can live a quiet, simple life. That's all I ever wanted, and that's what you have. Enjoy it."

Rae had tears in her eyes, but nodded nonetheless, and whispered a solemn promise: "I will." But she had one final question. "The story you told me about the girl and the Doctor, all those years ago—how did it end?"

Rory took one long look at distant ship, with the Pandorica on its deck, and Amy nestled inside like a bird waiting to hatch from its egg. Then, just before he dived off, he answered her last question.

"I'll tell you when I find out."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>: Yeah, so I realize I'm leaving you at a bit of a cliffhanger (literally!) but I'm going to update eventually, so don't worry.

Quick disclaimer: we won't be seeing Rae again for a while. All OC's need a break every so often to prevent them from contracting a fatal case of Mary-Sue-itis. Not like she's my Mary Sue or anything, though. Quite the opposite, as she's both slightly selfish and completely naïve. I do want Rory to see some real action, though, so next time I'll take a break from the banter and bring in a new monster. Our Auton hero needs the chance to do some Doctor-ish alien battles of his own.

And, as always, I love reading your comments, so please leave a review!


	3. The Tempest Within

**The Tempest Within**

Mini-Story Summary: Aboard a Pandorica-bearing ship en route to Rome, Rory guards the box he's bound to protect. But the fog rolling over the ship soon clouds people's minds and threatens to murder—or worse, enslave—everyone on board. Can Rory save the ship, and the Pandorica, from this elusive terror?

Note: This mini-story is currently incomplete. Don't worry, though, I'll soon finish it!

* * *

><p><span>Six Weeks Later<span>

Rory had spent the last month or so hiding in a forgotten corner of the ship, doing his best to remain undetected. Aside from having to dodge the occasional sailor fishing out rations from the hold, Rory endured the trip blissfully undisturbed. Every so often the ship would sway in the roiling storm seas, and Rory would brace himself against the hull and close his eyes, wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

On quiet nights, Rory sometimes stole out onto the top deck, where the Pandorica was strapped. He needed to make sure Amy was safe. Despite the relentless pounding of the elements, not a hint of weathering showed on the box's sleek faces. And, even when the planking was slick with seawater, not a drop dripped from the Pandorica. Through the slats, Rory heard whispers about the box. "The Anomaly," the soldiers called it—the thing that didn't belong in their universe. And it didn't; it was the final vestige of the universe Rory knew, the last relic of a better world.

This was one such night. The waves sparkled in the glow of the waning moon, the only light in the starless sky. Rory perched himself atop the Pandorica, legs swinging over a corner, and swayed in time with the peaceful rolling of the ship.

"Oy!" hollered a voice from the ship's prow, making Rory jump. "What're you doing? Geroff the box!"

"I'm sitting," protested Rory. "Big deal."

"That box is the property of the SPQR," said the soldier, lighting a torch and bringing it towards Rory. "Get off or I'll be forced to…do something."

"Well, do it then!" called Rory.

"Just get off the box."

"No."

"_Now_," said the soldier, waving a spear-point at Rory's throat. Rory gulped.

"Fine, no stabbing," said Rory. "My body doesn't need any more holes." And he hopped down.

The soldier brought the torch towards Rory's face. "You're not familiar. A stowaway, eh? Been nicking our rations, have you? Well, we can't afford to have another mouth on board." He hit his spear against the ship's bell. "Hey, boys! Get up here. We've got a man to throw to the fishes."

Half-woken men still throwing on their tunics began filing up from below deck. Two seized Rory's arms and pinned him to the floor, determined to tie his hands together.

"Over the side with him, then, Brutus?" said one of the men.

"Oh, most definitely," said Brutus.

As Rory was thoroughly incapacitated, he figured his best option was a fight. Well, actually, it was his only option.

"Hey! Brute-boy!" he tried his best to taunt. "It's three-to-one against me. I think you're scared of a fight."

Brutus looked genuinely surprised and a tad angry. "What did you say?"

Rory took the bait. "You…lily-livered…platypus," he fished around for insults. "D'you _really_ need two men to pin me down? Fight me like a man, coward, and we'll see who sleeps on the seabed tonight."

Brutus smiled dangerously. He nodded to the men, who dropped Rory on the floor and backed away. Rory hoisted himself to his feet, his hands still tied.

The men formed a wide circle around the pair, eager for a fight. Rory chuckled. They were Romans, all right. Fighters through and through. But that didn't bode well for his chances of survival.

Brutus drew his sword and began advancing forward.

Rory grew nervous. "What, aren't you going to untie me?"

Brutus scratched his chin mockingly. "Y'know what? I don't think I will."

Rory ducked Brutus' first swing, and sidestepped past his second. Then the soldier lunged forward, sword-point extended, and Rory put his arms in front of him. The blade sliced neatly through his bonds.

The men cheered as the rope shreds fell to the floor.

"Now you've done it," growled Brutus.

Rory was ducking and dodging and jumping faster than before. Brutus, far from letting his anger make his swings wide and predictable, channeled his rage into speed, jabbing and lunging in almost invisible and wholly unpredictable blurs. Rory caught glimpses of the men's impressed, bewildered faces as he braved Brutus' blows with not so much as a scratch on him. But, more importantly, anger could fuel Brutus for only so long. The soldier was sweating, and panting, and the jabs were becoming sparser and less powerful. Brutus was tiring out.

Then, Brutus halfheartedly swung at Rory's feet, and, quite by accident, Rory jumped a tad too early and—_whump_—landed on Brutus' blade, pinning it underfoot. The hilt slid from Brutus' hands, leaving him weaponless. And Rory, who had yet to aim a blow Brutus' way, grabbed the soldier by the shoulders and shoved him against the mast.

Then, having subdued his opponent, Rory fixed him with a stare he never thought he could pull off: the glower of dominance. "It's over," he said. "I win."

The entire circle of men was deathly silent as Brutus conceded. "All right. Let me go."

Rory's hands remained firmly on Brutus' shoulders. "First, promise me I have a job aboard this ship. I'll work as hard as I have to…just don't try to kill me again, or…I'll do something."

Brutus' eyes narrowed, but he nodded nonetheless, and mumbled something.

"I'm sorry?" said Rory. "Say it loud and clear, now, so everyone can hear."

"I promise," said Brutus bitterly.

"Now, that's better," said Rory, releasing the soldier. "Now, what's my first task, Mr. Brutus?"

"Crow's nest. Now." Brutus grumbled. "So, Mr.—"

"Rory."

"—You're our new lookout."

* * *

><p>"It's been two weeks, Amicus. Brutus's kept poor Rory on watch for two weeks straight. No food, no rest, not even bathroom breaks. I don't know how Rory's been doing it. People've been watching him, and nobody's sneaking him food, and he's not nodding off. Under the same circumstances, any one of us would be dead by now."<p>

Amicus shrugged and sipped his water. "You know, Tacitus, Brutus holds grudges like nobody else. Rory humiliated him in front of his men. Now, Brutus is exacting some small revenge. It's a wonder Rory puts up with it."

Tacitus leaned closer. "Something about Rory just doesn't sit right. I inventoried our rations yesterday. Nothing was missing. So, what did Rory eat during the time he was a stowaway?"

"He could've brought his own food."

"Not likely," objected Tacitus. "How'd he sneak on board with six weeks of rations? Does he eat at all? And, during his fight with Brutus, he didn't tire, and he hasn't slept since. No, something's extremely unusual about that man."

"No kidding. Few people would dare stand up to Brutus. Even fewer could win."

"Yeah," said Tacitus, swinging in his hammock. He was silent for a moment. "You know what? I'm going to go top-deck and talk to him." He jumped to his feet.

"What? Seriously?" Amicus then lowered his voice. "Well, whatever happens, don't let Brutus see you doing it. He'll flay you alive."

"'Course not," said Tacitus, disappearing through the trapdoor.

* * *

><p>Every trip to the crow's nest was a marvel. The ocean stretched for miles in every direction, with the coast merely a thin line to port, and the sky arched overhead. Or, at least, they normally did. Today, all Tacitus could see was the oppressive blankness of a foggy day.<p>

"The sea never ceases to surprise me," said Tacitus. "An hour ago, I could swear the sky was clear from horizon to horizon."

"Yeah…funny," said Rory. Tacitus glanced in his direction. The man looked perfectly healthy, and, even more surprisingly, completely comfortable.

"You're a bit young to be aboard a ship, aren't you?" said Rory, surveying Tacitus' short frame.

"I'm old enough to do work," countered Tacitus, hurt.

Rory nodded. "I've seen you on duty before. Sorry, but I don't know your name."

"I'm Tacitus Junius Horatius. And you're Rory."

"Yes, I am," said Rory. "So, the crew's been talking about me, then?"

Tacitus nodded. "Nobody knows what to make of you."

"What do you make of me?"

"I don't think you're a bad person."

Rory smiled. "Well, I guess that's a start. But?"

Tacitus took a deep breath. "But you do all sorts of impossible things. The longest shift anybody's had up here is twenty-seven hours, and he needed a week in his hammock to recuperate. After so much time up here, people start to see things. But you look perfectly fine, two weeks later. It doesn't make sense."

Rory laughed. "The older you grow, the more you realize the whole _world_ doesn't make sense. Everything's long since gone mad. When you're young and naive, you think that you're the only beacon of sanity in a crazy world. But then you get swept up in the madness too, and before you know it, you're as loony as everything else."

"Mr. Rory, are _you_ loony?"

"Me? Well, I used to be the sanest person in the world."

"And then?"

"Then, I got swept up in the most absurd, impossible life anyone could possibly lead. And the craziness seems to have rubbed off on me."

"You seem perfectly sensible to me."

Rory grinned mischievously. "That's the worst kind of insanity."

Tacitus was quiet for a moment. "So, why'd you fight Brutus? Why'd you stow away? Most people I know grew up in Rome and then left. You seem to be doing the opposite."

"What, I don't look like an innocent tourist to you? No? Just as well. All right, I'll tell you. But first, promise you won't tell a soul."

Tacitus was an adventurous, curious teenager. Of course he'd promise. "Yes."

"I'm guarding the box."

Tacitus' eyes widened. "You mean the Anomaly? What do you know about it? I've heard whispers. People say it came from the sky, and that it contains a treasure. That's why they're taking it to Rome." Tacitus surveyed Rory's expression. "By the gods, you know what's inside it!"

Rory said nothing.

"Come on, give me a hint. Please?" Tacitus begged.

"Well, if Rome thinks it'll give the empire unrivaled riches, they're wrong. What's inside the box is valuable, sure, but only to me."

Tacitus looked crestfallen. "So…to Rome, the Pandorica's useless?"

"Pretty much."

"Great. Caesar won't be amused."

"Yeah, and Brutus'll be in a load of trouble," commented Rory.

That brightened Tacitus up. "Well, then, I can't wait to go back to Rome."

Rory nodded. "Firm ground and the chance to sit down would be nice. Not to mention…Rome! Imagine that, a chance to see an ancient city at the height of its power. See the triumphal arches being built…watch games at the Colosseum—no, scratch that. I don't want to go to the Colosseum. Too much gore."

Tacitus looked befuddled. "You speak as if you're visiting the past."

Rory was silent for some time. "Y'know, Brutus usually waddles by to gawk at me around this time. God knows he needs no more excuses to go ballistic."

Tacitus agreed. "'Til later, then, Mr. Rory." And he began working his way down the rigging.

* * *

><p>That night was as long and dark as any other. Rory kept one eye on the coast, the other surveying the deck for signs of life. Every so often a curious soldier would sneak into the open to check if Rory was dozing. Of course, he never was, so he smiled and waved at the soldiers to prove he was paying attention and to snub Brutus further. So, when he heard drowsy footsteps shuffling across the planking, he turned and grinned, as per usual.<p>

The smile quickly slid from his face.

The soldier named Amicus advanced slowly, inexorably, towards the starboard railing.

"Hey! You! Get back!" yelled Rory. No response. Amicus heaved a foot over the edge.

"Unbelievable," muttered Rory, and jumped the thirty feet to the deck.

Amicus had managed to get both of his legs over the railing by the time Rory landed.

"Amicus, _stop_!" he hollered, dashing towards the falling figure.

Just before the man's wrist fell from arm's reach, Rory grasped the railing with one hand and snagged the soldier's arm with the other. Rory grimaced through the strain, and hauled Amicus back on deck.

"What in the name of sanity did you think you were doing!" sputtered Rory.

Amicus didn't respond. He didn't even open his eyes. He just pulled himself to his feet and loped back to the trapdoor, leaving Rory alone and flabbergasted.

Was Amicus even _awake_?

Rory barely had enough time to formulate this question when none other than Brutus leapt onto deck, grinning maliciously.

"You're away from your post, soldier," declared Brutus. "Twenty lashes, now. Go stand against the mast."

Rory obeyed.

"Now, who's on duty? Oh, yes, our little Tacitus. C'MERE, BOY!" Brutus hollered. "NOW!"

Poor Tacitus clambered from the trapdoor and gave Brutus the obligatory salute. Then he saw Rory.

"Boy, fetch the whip," ordered Brutus. Tacitus reluctantly fished the weapon from its dreaded cubby-hole near the stern.

"Good. Now, give him twenty strokes, right between the shoulder blades."

Tacitus froze. "Who, me, sir? What did Rory do wrong?"

Brutus' eyes narrowed dangerously. "Neglecting his duties. Disobeying orders. You'll share the same fate if you fail to do as commanded."

Tacitus eyed Rory, looking for advice. _Just do it_, mouthed Rory. _Don't want you hurt too_.

So, with a look of suppressed horror on his face, Tacitus swung. Brutus smirked in maniacal glee. With the first few cracks of the whip, his grin grew wider. It dissolved just as quickly as the whipping failed to elicit so much as a twitch from Rory.

After sixteen ineffective lashes, Brutus' rage boiled over. "Give it here, boy. Can't even whip a man properly, can you? Well, I'll show you how." He yanked the weapon from Tacitus' hands and took aim.

Rory could feel the anger Brutus put into his lashes. Somewhere between trying to ignore the strokes of the whip, Rory realized that he had essentially become Brutus' stress ball.

And then, they stopped, leaving Rory thoroughly relieved and Brutus no less frustrated, but more exhausted, than before.

"Get below," barked Brutus, regaining his composure. "Both of you. You're suspended from duty. For now."

Rory took Tacitus' arm and steered him below deck before Brutus could devise another punishment.

Once they'd both sat in Tacitus' hammock, the boy took a deep breath. "You didn't flinch. Not once. Did that even hurt you?"

Rory shrugged. "It tingled. Sure, Brutus is out to skin my hide, but that's not what I'm worried about."

Tacitus looked confused. "What, then?"

"Look around. Something—or someone—is missing."

Tacitus's eyes combed the deck and landed on an empty hammock.

"Amicus," he said. "He's not in bed."

Rory nodded. "Thing is, he tried jumping over the edge tonight. I saved him and he went back below deck. But, he's not on this deck. And if he's not here, and not topside, then where is he?"

"He can't've just disappeared," protested Tacitus.

"Well, he didn't jump over the side. I made sure of that. And you can't escape from a deck that only has one exit, an exit I kept two eyes on while Brutus was busy turning me into a piñata."

"What's a piñata?" asked Tacitus.

"Never mind. Now, while you were down here, before being summoned by Brutus, did you see anything remotely unusual?"

"Well, I saw Amicus climb below deck. Think he was sleepwalking. But he just went back to his hammock as if nothing had happened. That's all I saw, I promise!"

"All right, then. So, sometime while Brutus was keeping us busy upstairs, Amicus…did…something."

"What?"

"I dunno," said Rory. "We'll just have to wait and find out."

* * *

><p>Amicus didn't report for duty the next morning. Rory took advantage of his newfound freedom to scour every last corner of the ship for any traces of the soldier. Nothing. It was as if the man had simply evaporated. A man named Faustus took Rory's place as lookout for the day, and Rory eventually settled down in a hammock, swaying back and forth in time with the waves. Tacitus, similarly suspended from duty, paced the sleeping quarters for some time before sinking into his hammock in a deep sleep. Every so often Rory heard the boy's stomach rumble, which reminded him, with a pang of guilt, that with the loss of duties came the loss of rations. No work, no food; that was Brutus' policy.<p>

That night, Rory took advantage of the quiet to steal onto the top deck. As always, the Pandorica was undisturbed. Except for Faustus in the crow's nest and the navigator at the wheel, the deck was deserted. Rory sidled up to the pilot.

"How're things tonight?" he asked casually.

The navigator shrugged. "No different than normal. A bank of fog rolled by earlier—gave me quite the scare—but we're clear of it now."

"Why? What's so dangerous about the fog?"

"Impedes navigation, of course! If we lose sight of the coast, we're lost forever."

"How so? Can't you just navigate with the stars, or the sun, or compasses or something?"

"Don't tell me you believe those fairytales," grumbled the man. "Stars don't exist. The sun's gone down—that's why they call it _nighttime_. And what on Earth is a 'compass'?"

"Never mind, then," said Rory. "So, at night, you have to keep the coast in sight at all times?"

"Yep. That's my job. If I fail, we all die. Simple as that."

"How comforting," said Rory. "Anyway, you may want to wake up your watchman. I can hear Faustus snoring in the crow's nest."

A look of alarm flashed on the navigator's face. "Oy! Faustus!"

No response.

Rory looked up.

Faustus had taken leave of the crow's nest and was now inching like a tightrope-walker along the yard. And his eyes were still closed.

"My gosh, he's sleepwalking too!" gasped Rory. Then he began racing up the rigging.

He was too slow. When Faustus reached the yard-tip, he plummeted past the sail, past Rory, past the railing.

But Rory couldn't hear a splash.

Instead, what drifted up from the spot Amicus had disappeared was a small, dense cloud of fog. It arced over Rory's head and then disappeared towards the starboard side.

Rory hung from the rigging in stunned silence.

"I don't believe it," muttered the navigator. "Poof! Gone. Not a trace."

"Just like Amicus," said Rory. "He simply…evaporated."

"It's odd, though," said the man. "The wind's at our backs."

"So?"

"So, why would fog, which always travels with the wind, suddenly decide to change direction and move perpendicularly?"

"It's not fog at all," gasped Rory. "Think about it. Two men, in their sleep, are suddenly possessed by the urge to jump into the water. Only Faustus never reached the water, did he? He burst into fog first."

The navigator shivered. "What are we dealing with, then?"

"Something sentient. And everywhere. You say you sailed through a fog bank earlier tonight?"

The crewman nodded.

"Wrong. You sailed through something that looked like a fog bank, but wasn't. Something that took possession of a sleeping member of the ship in order to…reproduce? Is that it?"

"I don't follow."

"Think about it. You're a gas-like organism, capable of being inhaled. You've got some mechanism to enter a person's body and travel to their brain. You wait 'til they're asleep and vulnerable, and then control their motor functions like a puppeteer. Now, we saw how Faustus turned into fog wisps. That means the fog used him to reproduce."

"I still don't understand," said the navigator.

"It's probably better that way," shrugged Rory, "because there's nothing I can do about it right now. Just…be prepared. Come tomorrow night, I'll be ready."

* * *

><p>The next night, Rory snuck onto the top deck and took a seat in a dark, inconspicuous corner with an excellent vantage point. There, he kept an eye on the navigator, lookout, and trapdoor, looking for suspicious movement. Once in a while he thought he saw a shadow, or a figure, in the corner of his eye, which turned out to be an oddly-shaped barrel, or the rigging flapping in the breeze. But then—<p>

"By the gods, it's the fog again!" said the navigator.

Rory looked glanced towards the bow. Not far beyond, racing towards them at impossible speeds, was an eerily opaque wall of clouds. But, before Rory so much as stood, the ship burrowed deep into the mist.

"Oh, we're in trouble now," said Rory.

Brutus clambered onto the deck. "Indeed we are," he said. "Or, at least, _you_ are."

Rory sighed. "Now's not the time, Brutus."

"Brutus?" asked the soldier. "No. Brutus is sleeping. We are the Dreamwalkers."

Then Rory looked at Brutus. His eyes were still closed. Sound asleep. But his face was contorted in a forced smile.

"Where are you from? What do you want?" he asked the Dreamwalker.

"We come from the sea. We have always lived here. You trespass upon our territory. We want…repayment."

"What, and human life is your _currency_?" protested Rory.

"Indeed. The Dreamwalkers are few in number. Humans can…restore us." The soldier advanced closer.

"Well, I'd love to help, but…actually, I'd rather not."

"You have no choice," said the Dreamwalker flatly. "You will do our bidding, willingly or not."

"How?" asked Rory. "You can't do anything to me unless I'm sleeping. And, trust me, I'm _very_ good at staying awake."

"There are many of us and one of you. We can break down your defenses, asleep or not."

Brutus grabbed Rory's tunic and hoisted him into the air.

"Let go of me, you brute!" shouted Rory, flailing his arms. Brutus didn't even flinch, and speedily hauled Rory to the bow of the ship.

Finally, one of Rory's fists connected with Brutus' chest. The man buckled over, dropping Rory to the floor, but before he could run, three more pairs of arms forced Rory's face against the railing. The fog flooded his mouth and nose.

"You will become like us," said a Dreamwalker in a familiar voice.

"Tacitus, not you too," choked Rory. He could feel the fog inside him, smothering him, and the pressure building up like he was a teapot about to boil. For a moment, he blacked out.

And then, he coughed. A stream of dust trickled from his nose and fell in a little heap onto the railing.

"They're dead? No. Impossible," muttered the Dreamwalker.

Rory looked back at the pile of dust, at the pile of dead Dreamwalkers. "Oh," he said. Then he decided to take advantage of their surprise.

"Yeah. Impossible. You know what else is impossible? _This_." And then, in a sudden blinding burst, he shot his hand-gun into the air.

The next thing he knew, the hands pinning him down were gone, and he crumpled on the planking to catch his breath. And Tacitus, Brutus, and the navigator were standing behind him, blinking, with befuddled expressions on their faces.

Rory jumped to his feet. "Sorry. You were all sleepwalking."

"All of us?" asked the navigator. "At the…same time?"

"I know. Bit of a coincidence, really," said Rory. "But, anyway, back to bed, I say." He led Brutus and Tacitus back to the trapdoor, and with a flourish, shut it behind them. Then he turned to find the navigator staring back at him.

"I wasn't sleeping," the crewman said bluntly. "I was on duty, wide awake. What actually happened? The last thing I remember…was the fog."

"Yes," said Rory. "Guess that'd make sense. You just fell under the control of a species known as the Dreamwalkers. And…you just tried to strangle me. More or less. But you're better now. Which is funny, though. You, Tacitus, and Brutus were all freed as soon as I fired my gun."

"Your _what_?"

"Never mind, just ignore me. Thinking out loud. So, a laser blast killed or scared off the Dreamwalkers inside of you, even though I didn't fire directly at you. So, what're my options? Sound? That gun makes quite a noise. But, no, I was shouting too, which didn't do a thing. Not sounds, then. Heat? Nah, wouldn't radiate far enough to fry anything. Adrenaline? Shocked people produce loads of adrenaline. Could flush out the Dreamwalkers. Oh, but wait! Faustus jumped off the yard, and I'd daresay that produced a lot of fear, a lot of adrenaline, whether he was awake or not. And the Dreamwalkers were still fine. So, last option: the laser itself. The Dreamwalkers hate the brightness."

"What does that mean?"

"That means we need more light. Mr. Navigator, fetch the kindling."

* * *

><p>That night, the deck blazed with the two dozen barrel-fires Rory had lit. The fog receded a fair distance, but nevertheless lurked at the edge of view, far from the ship but ever close to mind. It was near dawn that the navigator, just released from duty, sidled up to Rory with a concerned expression on his face.<p>

"Mr. Rory, sir, there's a problem. I was under the impression we had two stocks of wood. Last night we burnt through one of them. Problem is, I just went to check for the other stock. Apparently, it doesn't exist."

"So…"

"So, we're out of kindling."

"Not good. Not good at all. Tonight's a new moon, too. It'll be pitch-black. If the Dreamwalkers were to choose a night to take this ship, it'd be this one. And we're defenseless. I can't use my hand-gun too much. A big drain on power; and, plus, what good is one laser against an entire bank of fog? No, we need firelight, and lots of it. If only we had more kindling."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rory, but I checked. A few scraps of wood, nothing more. It'll stave the Dreamwalkers off for a few hours, maximum."

"We'll make it last, then," concluded Rory. "Get some rest now. You're going to need it."

* * *

><p>Rory spent the day mechanically pacing back and forth on deck. The crewmen pretended not to notice the worried look on his face. Every so often he would throw a concerned glance at the sun as it sank ever lower in the sky. In turn, Brutus shot glares of suspicion at Rory's activities but said nothing. As the sun first kissed the horizon, Brutus disappeared below deck, and Tacitus took advantage of the opportunity to sneak to Rory's side. He said nothing, but his inquisitive expression told Rory enough.<p>

"I think you should be topside tonight," said Rory.

"Why? Wouldn't below deck be safer?" asked Tacitus.

"No, not at all. In fact, I'm not letting anyone below tonight."

"Brutus won't take kindly to that."

"Oh, when he sees what I'm planning, he'll be just as eager to jump ship as everyone else."

"Jump ship? Mr. Rory, what on Earth are you planning to do?"

"Well, the navigator said we're out of kindling. He was wrong. We have as much kindling as we need."

"What are you talking ab—" and then Tacitus realized. "Oh! Tell me you're not going to—"

"Shh," hissed Rory. "Now, I have just a few minutes. We need to get all the men up here. Don't want to hurt them. So, your job is to tell them something, anything, that'll get them above deck. It's a shame we don't have any lifeboats. Not so much as a raft. But we'll make do."

"It's not going to be safe," said Tacitus.

"I know," answered Rory. "But we're less than a week's walk from Rome. I want us to be as close to port as possible when I do it. Safer territory, you see? But I've instructed the navigator to steer as close to the coast as possible. So, less than half a kilometer to swim. We'll have enough light to fend off the Dreamwalkers. Hopefully that'll give us enough time to get to shore. You think we can do it?"

"You're right," said Tacitus.

"I'm sorry?"

"You were right. You _are_ insane."

"Yeah, but the real question is, is this crazy enough to work?"

"I hope so," said Tacitus.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Tacitus had spun a ridiculous tale involving a bet and mermaids, and the men had stolen onto top deck in a curious bid to hear more. As soon as they had all hurtled through the trapdoor, Rory kicked it shut. It slammed with an ominous bang.<p>

"So, what's the story?" asked one crewmember.

"Sorry, no story!" said Rory. "Thanks for coming, though. Now, a bit short notice, but I need you all to jump in the water and swim to shore."

The men laughed. "You first," one called.

And then Brutus pushed his way through the crowd.

"WHAT IN THE GODS' NAMES IS THIS ABOUT?" He seized Rory by the scruff of the neck. "These men are on duty. Insubordination, is it? That's more than enough cause for a whipping. Or marooning. Which do you prefer?"

"Brutus, are you looking for another fight? Because this time you forgot to bring your sword. Are you even wearing armor?"

Brutus scowled. "Armor is unnecessary."

"Good! Just wanted to make sure," announced Rory. "Now, since you've got nothing to weigh you down, I've got no qualms about doing _this_."

In one smooth motion, he hoisted Brutus aloft and threw him overboard. The man made a satisfying splash. For a moment, Rory wondered if the soldier could swim, but then his fuming head broke the waves.

"You…you…" he spluttered.

"Don't even try to climb aboard," said Rory. "Your safest bet's to swim to shore. Don't worry, we'll all be following you soon enough. Trust me, I'm doing you a favor."

The crewmen looked uneasy.

"All right, here's the scoop," Rory addressed the men. "Night's falling, and we don't have any way of staving off the darkness. We can't let this ship get dark, because the fog will roll in and we will die. Take my word for it. So, we're going to swim for shore."

"Are you completely mental?" shouted one crewman. "Get this guy restrained before he kills us all!"

The crew began advancing. Rory's plan was falling apart, but maybe it was still salvageable. There was one sure-fire way of getting the men into the water. No pun intended. He met Tacitus' eyes, who nodded.

And then, Rory stepped back and let a laser burst arc into the wooden deck. In a magnificent _whoosh_, the planking exploded into flames.

"_Now_ are you convinced?" he shouted. "Everyone overboard!"

Ten seconds later, the deck was empty and the ocean churned with panicked crewmen swimming for their lives.

Rory turned to Tacitus above the roaring of the flames. "You too!" he yelled. "I'll meet you at the shore!"

For a moment, Tacitus looked ready to argue. But then, he simply said, "I'll be waiting for you."

And then he was gone too.

Rory had only a few minutes before the entire ship went up in flames. He seized the wheel and spun it, and ever so slowly the bireme began turning towards the shore.

"Come on, come on," he muttered. "We're so close to land."

The ship didn't respond, but inched shoreward nevertheless.

The flames grew larger. The planking groaned.

Rory saw what was happening. "Oh."

And then the deck, weakened by the fire, gave way, and the Pandorica plummeted through the hull into the sea beneath.

Without hesitation, Rory dived in after it.

* * *

><p>In the light of the burning wreckage, Tacitus panted as he pulled himself onto the beach. His fellow crewmen collapsed onto the pebbles in utter exhaustion, but Tacitus was relieved nevertheless to see that they had all made it to land. Well, all but one.<p>

Rory was nowhere to be found.

As the men picked themselves from the rocks and began to make camp, Tacitus watched the last embers of the ship burn their way into the water. The crew had found some trees and started a campfire, which soon became the only light in the insufferable darkness. Straining his eyes against the blackness, Tacitus searched the sea—and the overlying fog—for any sign of Rory.

Although his fellow crew packed up and left for Rome the next morning, Tacitus stayed behind.

A week later, he left too.

* * *

><p><span>One Fortnight Later<span>

Even during the dead of night, Rome bustled with activity. Tasked with the governance of its ninety million subjects, the capital could not afford to sleep. Workers shuffled to and fro, carrying cargo between the port and the trading ships. Just like any other night.

But what the men failed to notice was a lone figure silhouetted against the silver moon emerging from the water. He strained against a taut rope, and ever so slowly, wrestled a massive cube from the waves.

Safe.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: So, there you have it! As usual, thanks for reading. In the meantime, I'm going to watch tonight's episode while munching fish fingers and custard, a far different sort of adventure than the one I just finished writing! Please, if you enjoy these stories, subscribe andor leave a review. I love hearing your input.

I've got some ideas for Rory's adventures in Rome, so never fear! The best is yet to come.

Allons-y!


	4. When in Rome

**When in Rome…**

Mini-Story Summary: Rory tries to do as the Romans do. Badly.

* * *

><p>121 AD<p>

The three years since Rory had arrived in Rome had passed in a blur. He took a job as a tutor for the children of the aging doctor Quintus. He took the opportunity to hide the Pandorica behind a wall in Quintus' cellar. Rory had diverted suspicion by "renovating" the basement to create a teaching area. Often, while instructing little Tertius and young Lucine, he habitually checked the back wall, ensuring the safety of his beloved box.

Every day, he strolled through the streets of Rome, inspecting the markets and exploring the secret alleys of the forums. Thousands of people passed by every day, ignorant of the machinery masquerading as a human in their midst. He'd examine their faces—the harried mothers, the carefree men, the grim politicians, the ecstatic children. However hard he tried to suppress the thought, every so often he'd wonder where their graves would be, how they died, or if he knew any of their descendants back in Leadworth. In this capital of the ancient world, Rory felt completely alone.

Over time, Quintus allowed Rory to observe his procedures. Rory would often sneak into his medical stores at night and sterilize his equipment. As Quintus' patients healed better and faster than any in Rome, his reputation spread. Gradually, as Rory and Quintus grew closer, Rory gently guided the doctor's techniques. They boiled and sharpened his scalpels between uses, scrubbed the room every evening, and prescribed makeshift penicillin for bacterial infections. Quintus, far from letting his success go to his head, nicknamed Rory _Aesculapius_ and gave him a bed in his own house. His duties as nurse and tutor kept him busy, but still found time for his walks.

On one particularly sunny day, Rory had just finished a foray into the Forum and was returning to Quintus' villa when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around to find a man, a plebian by the look of his toga, with a familiar face.

"Mr. Rory?"

"_Tacitus_?"

The man pulled Rory into a bear hug. "I waited for you," he said. "A whole week, I waited. And you didn't come. I thought you were dead."

"I'm glad you're fine too. Did the crew survive?"

"Yes. Every last member."

Rory breathed with relief. "Thank God."

"I combed the water looking for you. When I couldn't wait any longer, I felt terrible, like I was abandoning you. How on Earth did you escape?"

"Well, I'm a good swimmer."

"And the box?"

"Safe."

"But I saw it plunge into the water!"

"A _very_ good swimmer."

Tacitus eyed Rory. "We need to talk. Come to my villa?"

* * *

><p>Over the obligatory glass of wine, Tacitus pressed Rory for answers.<p>

"I don't think you've changed at all, either. Don't you ever age?"

"_You_ have, though," said Rory. "Last time, you were barely old enough to hold a paddle. Now look at you!"

"Yeah, my wife swears I grew a foot-length since we first met."

Rory slid back in his seat. "Really? I mean…aren't you too young…?"

Tacitus leaned forward with a smile. "I'm old enough to marry."

Rory stared into his goblet. "What's it like?"

"Sorry?"

"Being married. Is it worth it?"

Tacitus settled into his couch. "Without a doubt. Every second with her is worth all the treasure in the world."

"And you'd do anything for her?"

"Anything. I'd follow her to the farthest ends of the Earth, risk my life to protect her." Then Tacitus gagged on his wine with a sudden realization. "Like you and the Pandorica, right? It's not _what's_ inside it, but _who's_ inside. A lady."

Rory nodded, deep in thought. "It's been the night before our wedding for twenty years now."

"What happened?"

Rory took a long breath. "Well, she ran off to chase her dreams. I followed her to the end of the Earth, and beyond. We just kept running together. It was so easy to run, you know, to ignore all our responsibilities and obligations. But then I did something unforgivable, and as punishment I have the biggest responsibility of them all—protecting that box. One thousand and eighty years to wait until I can see her again, to tell her I'm sorry."

Tacitus was silent for some time. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because two thousand years is a long time to keep a secret."

Tacitus nodded. "I can't imagine. It doesn't sound real. It sounds…"

"—like a nightmare?" asked Rory.

"I was going to say 'fairytale.'"

"Why?"

"I'm just nineteen, so what do I know about life? But, I think that every person, myself included, wants to run away from the world sometimes. Every person then has to face the consequences of those actions. Very few people have the opportunity to fix what went wrong. You've been given a second chance, Mr. Rory. That's why I think your story will have a happy ending."

* * *

><p>The next morning found Rory giving Tertius and Lucine literature lessons.<p>

"Mr. Rory?" asked Lucine, waving her hand. "At the end of Orion's story, Zeus turns Orion into a constellation. What's a constellation?"

"A constellation is a group of stars."

"Stars? Those aren't real, are they?" interjected Tertius. "Dad always said they were just myths."

Rory chose his words carefully. "To some, the stars are just stories. But to other people, they're real."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Nothing in this universe makes any sense, Tertius, if you think about it long enough."

Tertius was quiet for a moment, but Rory could almost envision the cogs of thought churning in his little cranium. "You're right, Mr. Rory," he admitted. "Dad and Auntie Evelina escaped Pompeii when the gods set the mountain on fire. They don't like to talk about it, and when I ask them, they say they were saved by a miracle. That doesn't make sense either."

"A miracle? What sort of miracle?"

"They say the household gods leapt from the sky and took them to a safe place."

"Sounds like a 'storks-drop-babies-on-doorsteps' story to me," commented Rory.

"What?" asked Lucine.

"It's a story they'll explain when you're old enough to understand."

"Oh," said Lucine. "I hate when they do that."

"Me too!" said Tertius.

"Don't worry, you'll grow up soon enough."

"Mr. Rory, will you still be with us then?"

Rory was saved from responding by a knock on the door.

"Be right back," he said, scuttling up the stairs.

He answered the door to find three fully-armored guards at the threshold. One stepped forward.

"We have received an anonymous tip," he announced. "Are you Roranicus?"

"Uh, yeah," said Rory hesitantly. "A tip about what?"

"Are you hiding Imperial property on these premises?"

"No." The truth.

"Sorry, but we can't take your word for it." The soldier pushed past Rory and began surveying the villa. "We have orders to search this house."

"I'm certain Quintus won't be pleased," protested Rory.

"Oh, don't worry, we'll be gone soon enough. We'll leave the explaining to you."

"Gee, thanks," muttered Rory as the soldiers split up. The first—and most irritating—began descending the stairs. Not good at all.

Lucine and Tertius looked nervous as the soldier drew closer, poking around the floor, peeking in the vases, and rifling through the texts. Then, to Rory's horror, the man began pounding his spear-butt against the walls and listening intently. The one opposite the stairs seemed solid enough. So did the one to the left, and to the right. But then Rory could only look on helplessly as the spear hit the last wall with a hollow thud. A grin split the soldier's face as he raised the weapon and drove it into the plaster.

When the dust settled, the children gasped.

The sleek black corner of the Pandorica poked through the shattered wall.

"I can explain!" said Rory. "It's—"

And then the soldiers wrestled him to the floor.

* * *

><p>Over the course of the day, Rory's incessant pacing had worn ruts in the cell's dirt floor.<p>

"It's no use, Aesculapius," said Quintus. "The emperor's prison is inescapable."

"No, that's not what I'm worried about. What on Earth does Hadrian want with the Pandorica?"

"What, the box? How did you hide it in my villa, anyway?"

"While I was renovating, I stashed it behind the wall," Rory confessed.

Quintus nodded.

"You're not angry?" asked Rory. "I'm sorry my association with you got you arrested too."

Quintus shrugged. "You're a smart man, Aesculapius. I'm sure you had your reasons. But I don't much like being on the Emperor's bad side. I can't believe you were willing to risk the Emperor's wrath. You know how much he wants—_needs_—that box."

"He needs it? Why?"

"Haven't you heard the stories?"

"Which stories?"

Quintus took a deep breath. "The Celts feared the box. Said it brought misfortune. The ship that transported the box back to Rome mysteriously caught fire and sank, and the surviving members of the crew said that some of their shipmates became inexplicably insane. A few of them even committed suicide."

"What does this have to do with Hadrian?"

"Well, having safely within his possession such an object of fear and respect will grant him the same level of admiration from the Celts. He'd finally put a stop to the rebellions in Britannia. The Emperor wants to parade the Pandorica through Britain to display his power."

"I can't let him haul the box back North. It was difficult enough to get it here safely."

Quintus eyed Rory inquisitively. "How'd you get possession of the box? Last I heard, it was at the bottom of the sea."

"The same way you escaped from Pompeii, apparently," said Rory. "A miracle."

Quintus nodded wordlessly.

"But what I don't understand," continued Rory, "is how the soldiers knew where to find the Pandorica. It's not as if I told them where it was." Then his eyes widened in sudden realization. "But I did tell Tacitus. Why on Earth would he go tattling to the Emperor? Doesn't make any sense."

"Ironic name, too," muttered Quintus.

"I'm sorry?"

"'Tacitus.' It means 'silence.' If he's an imperial informant, it's a rather funny name."

Rory froze for a moment, as if this trivia had some significance. Then he shook his head. "Well, in any case, we need to get out of here," he announced. "We need to recover the Pandorica."

"But it's in the possession of the Emperor!"

"Well, then, let's go have a chat with him, shall we?"

"We can't just go traipsing off to Palatine Hill!"

"Why not?"

"We're in a _prison_," observed Quintus.

"Not for long," Rory promised.

* * *

><p>By dinnertime, Rory had dragged Quintus up to the steps of Hadrian's palace.<p>

"I still can't believe the door was unlocked," said Quintus.

"Just luck, I guess," said Rory. Actually, his success was more due to a quick laser blast and a fair amount of running than anything else.

"Well, I hope this 'luck' holds," commented Quintus. "The prison may be somewhat insecure, but rest assured the palace won't be. The Praetorian Guard isn't a force to mess with, and don't get me started on the _frumentarii_. Do you have a plan?"

"Yes," said Rory, pointing. "You see that gate?"

"Of course."

"We're going to knock."

Rory sidled up to the gate. A guard grabbed his arm.

"You can't enter," he said gruffly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's the _Imperial_ _Palace_."

"So?"

"You can't just stroll in and sup with the Emperor!"

Rory grinned mischievously. "Watch me!"

And then he slipped under the guard's elbow and darted inside.

"I just don't understand that man," muttered Quintus, sprinting after him.

* * *

><p>Upon seeing Rory burst into his dining room, Emperor Hadrian set down his wine. The eyes behind his beard raged.<p>

"What is this?" he stormed. "Where're my guards?"

"Don't worry," said Rory. "My entourage will arrive at any moment."

The soldiers, panting after the long pursuit, barreled into the chamber.

"Oh, here they are!" Rory said cheerily. "Now, where's my box?"

Hadrian was furious. "Guards, seize this lunatic!"

The soldiers obligingly pounced at Rory, who suddenly was far from their reach, one of their swords in his hand.

"That wouldn't be such a good idea," he warned. Then he lifted the sword to where the Emperor could see it, this symbol of Roman power gleaming in the torchlight.

Then he snapped the blade in half.

"Now, let's talk, Mr. Emperor, just you and me," said Rory.

Quintus stumbled into the room, panting heavily. "Aesculapius? What's this about?"

Rory saw the shadow of surprise that crossed Hadrian's face. The display of strength, the impudence, and now this man referring to the intruder by the name of a god? Could it be?

"…oh, and let's bring Quintus too," finished Rory.

The Emperor agreed.

* * *

><p>Although a pair of guards kept watch outside the door, once the Emperor had led Rory and Quintus into his private chamber, they were completely alone.<p>

"Great," said Rory, sinking onto a couch. "Now, earlier today you stole a box from Quintus' property. That box is under my protection, and I want it back."

"That box is needed to quell the rebellion in Britannia," countered Hadrian. "Surely you know that."

"I do," said Rory, "but, if I remember my history correctly, the rebellion will end this year anyway. I promise. Just build a big wall straight through Britain and you'll be fine. But, come New Year's, the only purpose the Pandorica will serve to you is as a paperweight."

"But the box is also said to contain riches," said Hadrian. "Whoever survives the hardship the Pandorica brings can try to open it. This wealth would be an invaluable asset to Rome."

"_Why_ do people see a box and automatically assume there's treasure inside?" Rory sighed. "Let's set the record straight: _there is nothing in that box of any monetary value to you_."

"Then why are you guarding it?"

"Because I promised, a long time ago, that I would."

"Promised? Promised whom?" asked Hadrian. "The gods?"

"No, a Doctor," Rory stared straight into Hadrian's eyes. "_The_ Doctor. He's the warden of all of time and space. No prison can hold him, though many have tried. I've seen armies turn and flee at the sound of his name. Now, I promised him, twenty years ago, to watch over the Pandorica. When I see him again, after Rome falls and your palace dissolves into dust, must I tell him that the Pandorica's loss is _your_ fault?"

The Roman Emperor surrendered his authority, gazing at his own feet. "Very well," he conceded. "I propose a bargain. You can guard this Pandorica, and I can guarantee its safety."

"How?" Rory asked.

"I shall build a grand receptacle in Rome to hold it," promised the Emperor. "Amongst other relics, where hundreds of people shall pass by every day, it will remain in plain view, revered, and therefore untouched."

"What sort of receptacle?"

"I call it the Pantheon."

"The _Pantheon_? Really?" Rory grinned. "The Pandorica in the Pantheon. Imagine that. Agreed. But how do I know you'll keep your word?"

Flames flickered in Hadrian's eyes, and he drew himself up to his full height. "I am an Emperor of Rome. My word commands the lives of ninety million subjects. If my word does not suffice, nothing will."

Rory nodded. "Keep the Pandorica in your safest vault until then, then. I'll be keeping an eye on it as well. Actually, two eyes. Actually, two eyes and a hand." Rory reached for the door. "Anyway, thank you, sir. I probably won't be seeing you again. But, in any case, watch out for your brother-in-law, Servianus. He's a slippery one. Bye!"

And, ignoring Hadrian's befuddled expression, Rory grabbed Quintus' arm and slid out the door.

* * *

><p>Someplace between Palatine Hill and Quintus' villa, the old Roman doctor asked him a question that must have been eating at him for some time. "What do you mean, Rome's going to fall?"<p>

Rory couldn't look Quintus in the eye. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

Quintus put a hand on Rory's shoulder, bringing their walk to a halt. "No. You said Rome would fall and the palace would turn to dust. You said you remembered from history that the Britannic revolution would end this year. You're recalling events that haven't happened yet, almost as if…" he sighed. "Almost as if you'd slid back through time."

Rory said nothing.

"By the gods!" exclaimed Quintus loudly. Then, looking around guiltily, he lowered his voice. "All that knowledge, all that experience. And you can't say a word. It must be killing you. The whole city, this whole Empire, and you realize it won't last."

"Nothing lasts," whispered Rory. "Everything decays eventually. Just a matter of time."

"Is that really what you think?"

Rory was silent for some time. "No."

Quintus flashed a brief smile. "Good to know you're a wiser man than to believe that. You've shown me at least one thing that never dies, Aesculapius. Promises. Anchor yourself to your vow, let it fill you with comfort and hope, and you'll survive the storm. Take it from me, a life without hope isn't a life at all."

Rory glanced in Quintus' direction. The man was looking intently at Rory, as if he expected Rory to ask him something. So he obliged.

"What do you mean, 'take it from me?'" Rory inquired. "Wait…this doesn't have anything to do with your escape from Pompeii, does it?"

"Oh, Aesculapius, it has _everything_ to do with that," said Quintus. "In the years you've lived with us, you've never looked twice at our shrine. I understand that you didn't want to get involved with our religions and our gods, but you would have immensely benefited from closer inspection of the carving on the wall."

"Why? What about it?"

"It's of our household patrons. The ones that took us from Pompeii."

"You called it a 'miracle.'"

"So I did," said Quintus. "It was a miracle. I was a boy when Vesuvius exploded. A 'volcano', my father called it. Our family was trapped in our villa, cowering and resigned to death. But, just when all hope had faded, a blue box appeared."

Rory turned to face Quintus. "You met the Doctor?" he asked disbelievingly.

Quintus nodded. "He saved us, and took us in his box to a safe location. In thanks, he holds a prominent place in our home, and our hearts. He changed our lives, too—he's the reason I now practice medicine. To help people. But, above all, in a world that was tearing itself apart, he gave us hope. Now, the question is, Rory, do _you_ have hope?"

Rory took a deep breath. "Yes," he said simply.

"Well, that's all that matters."

"Thank you, Quintus. Now, let's head back home. There's still one question that needs answering. Who told Hadrian about the Pandorica? Also, I need to fix your wall," he finished sheepishly.

"Oh, forget the wall. You must tell me your stories. I'm sure you have plenty."

The pair began walking again.

Rory smiled. "Where should I begin?"

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note:<span> Yep, I definitely just introduced an underlying multi-story arc. That'll keep me busy for some time! Meanwhile, I think Rory's going to have some more entanglements with historical figures, just because it's rather fun. And maybe a few more monsters will invade these stories as well.

Speaking of monsters, Finals and Essays of Death are rapidly rearing their ugly heads, and so over the next week or two I might be a bit preoccupied defeating them with pens, which, as we all know, are far superior to swords. In other words, please forgive me if I don't update as regularly as I usually do.

Once again, thanks for reading! Feel free to write a review telling me what you think. Reviews make me just as happy as new episodes of Doctor Who do. Which is saying a lot…so, please, fuel both my obsession and writing by leaving a comment!

Allons-y!


	5. The Other Doctor: Part 1

**The Other Doctor**

Mini-Story Summary: Rory pairs with a famous physician to fight off a plague…but what's causing it? And who exactly is Tacitus?

* * *

><p><span>166 AD<span>

Forty-five years had passed. Quintus had faded out of this world at his appointed time, and his children had blossomed into well-respected Roman citizens. Rory, ever the scholar, schooled their children himself. For a few years he'd shaved his head and adopted a stiff walk to avoid Lucine and Tertius' suspicions at his lack of aging, but the crude razors worried him and the limp was uncomfortable, so he gradually abandoned them. The questions would come soon enough, but Rory was determined to avoid them for as long as possible.

"Mr. Rory, you look like mama's little brother," said Aquila. "I can't believe you taught her when she was our age."

Rory sighed. No dodging the subject, then. "Why do you think that is, Aquila?"

"I dunno," he shrugged.

"Well, I'll tell you something," said Rory, leaning over his desk. "It's because I always eat my vegetables."

Aquila, Corvina, and Gallus stared at their teacher with eyes like tea saucers.

Rory nodded, grinning. "Yep! All that cabbage, and leeks, and spinach—"

"Ew!" groaned the kids in unison.

"—yes, especially the spinach. They make you healthy as a horse. A very…healthy…horse."

The children giggled.

"Grandfather Quintus always said you were a good doctor," said Gallus, the youngest. "He was a good doctor himself, so you must have been great." Then he shivered. "Mr. Rory, I'm cold."

Rory was puzzled. "Cold? But it's quite possibly the warmest day we've had this year. What's wrong with you?" He placed a hand on Gallus' forehead. Then, after a few seconds, he picked the boy in his arms and began striding out of the room.

"You're burning up, Gallus!" said Rory, concerned. "We're getting you into bed. Now."

* * *

><p>Forty-eight hours later, Rory's concern gave way to full-blown panic. The fever had fallen, but Rory had discovered tiny red spots lining Gallus' nostrils and throat. With each passing minute, Gallus' symptoms looked more and more like—<p>

"Smallpox," said Rory, peering into Gallus' mouth.

"What's that?" asked Lucine, clutching her son's hand.

"Very, very, very not good," announced Rory. "This same disease wiped out entire civilizations in the Americas. Finding it here…well, it doesn't bode well."

"What do we do?" asked Lucine, her voice cracking.

Rory stood abruptly. "We need to contain it. Nobody currently in this villa is to leave, and nobody not inside is to enter. Find a good breathable cloth and bind it over Gallus' face. Don't let his saliva near any of you. Contagious. The same goes for the sheets, and his tunic. I advise all of you to stay away from this room."

Lucine's eyes brimmed with tears. "But what about Gallus? What about my son?"

"I'll take care of him," promised Rory.

"But you'll get sick too!"

"I said I'd take care of him."

Lucine nodded.

* * *

><p><span>Two Weeks Later<span>

Amongst the crowded streets of Rome strode a lone figure, back bent under the weight of his sack. Yet, despite his load, the man carried himself in an authoritative manner, and passersby nodded with respect and stood aside as he passed. While he walked, he remembered what his assistant had told him that morning.

_It's dangerous_, he'd said. _Nobody's been in or out of that villa for weeks. People can hear moaning emanating from the windows, and coughing too. They think the household's gotten sick. Deathly ill. Just like the men in the barracks, I think. The plague. It's risky, doctor, but maybe you can help them._

That was the reason this doctor now knocked on the door of the Pompeianus family villa.

"Hello?" he asked. "Is anyone in?"

No response.

After three minutes and forty-one seconds of pounding, he'd had enough. Slipping his finger through a gap in the doorframe, he lifted the latch and swung the door open.

"Anyone here?" he called. His voice echoed through the dark, stuffy corridor. "Anyone…still…alive?" The doctor advanced cautiously towards a bedroom.

A weak, muffled cough issued through the door. The doctor chose this moment to abandon all caution and launch into action, bursting through the door. What he saw made his battle-hardened nerves shiver.

"What is thi—" and then he blinked.

Hidden amongst the shadows of the darkened room was a bed, and upon that bed, lay a child.

The doctor dropped his sack and rushed to the child. The boy's shallow breathing hinted at the severity of his condition. The man used a clean cloth to peel back the sheet covering the child's arm. It was covered in raised, dimpled bumps.

"The plague," he whispered. "It's a miracle it hasn't spread beyond this villa. But where is your family, boy? Someone's been caring for you; these sheets were just cleaned. Why, then, isn't your caretaker sick too? The plague's highly contagious. I mean, I've been taking precautions, but they require specialized equipment and knowledge. There is no way your friend would survive."

"Get him out of here."

The man whirled around to find a figure emerging from the shadows, carrying a stack of clean linens.

"You're his caretaker!" said the doctor. Rory nodded, passing him the folded cloths.

A flood of questions spilled from the doctor's mouth. "Why aren't you dead? Do you have medical training? Who are you, anyway?"

"It'll take a lot more than a virus to kill me," said Rory enigmatically. "I have plenty of training, more so than even you, I daresay." His mouth cracked into the faintest hint of a smile. "Many people call me many things. One of my old friends called me _Aesculapius_."

The man's eyes grew wide with the mention of the god of medicine. But he quickly hid his surprise behind a mask of skepticism.

"Prove it," he said.

Rory moved closer. "Twenty-one years ago. Pergamon. Your father had a vision."

"How could you know that?" breathed the man.

"I told him that you were going to be a doctor. A brilliant doctor."

The doctor nodded. "_Aesculapius_ did. It changed my life. _You_ changed my life."

"Now, putting aside my bizarre little vacation and your father's concerning gullibility, we have other things to do. You need to get little Gallus here to a safe place."

"What happened?"

"He was playing near the militia drilling field. He got sick."

"The soldiers have the plague too. They brought it back from abroad."

"Right. Makes sense," said Rory. "Now, I need you to take Gallus away. This place is festering with the plague. It killed the rest of his family, Lucine and Aquila and all the others. He's the last. I promised to care for him."

"Isn't there anything you can do?"

Rory shook his head. "It would take a miracle."

The doctor nodded. "I'll clear the roads, wrap him up, keep things clean. He can come to my place. It's a good thing I came."

"You came because I told your assistant," said Rory. "You came because I wanted you to. And now, Galen, we're going to save him, because I promised I would."

* * *

><p>Gallus, laid limply onto the couch, was motionless as Galen dabbed his pocked face with a damp cloth.<p>

"You say he's the only survivor in his family?" asked Galen.

Rory nodded.

"What did you do with his family's bodies?"

Rory looked confused. "What bodies?"

"Well, when people die, they leave bodies!" said Galen. "What happened to them? They're contagious and dangerous."

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No," said Rory. "Anyway, what he needs is good care. I don't have a cure for smallpox. But…" he trailed off, grinning.

"But what?" asked Galen.

"I might have a vaccine."

"A what?"

"A way to prevent the disease."

"How?" asked Galen.

Rory grimaced. "Well, it won't be for the faint-hearted. Tell me, of the soldiers with smallpox, have the bumps on any of them turned into scabs?"

"Yes, one. He was one of the first to show the symptoms."

"Right, okay then! Let's not waste any time. Take me to him."

* * *

><p>The afflicted soldier looked nearly normal, save the reddish scabs covering every square inch of visible skin. He sat up and smiled as Galen and Rory approached.<p>

"Hi. I'm Petrus," he introduced himself.

"I'm…here to help," said Rory. "May I see your arm?"

Petrus held out his elbow. Before the patient had a chance to yelp, Rory had seized his wrist and yanked off three of his scabs.

"What'd you do that for?" howled Petrus.

"Sorry," apologized Rory, dumping the scabs in a bowl. "They're much needed."

"For what?"

"Long story. In the years before a proper smallpox vaccine was invented, people practiced something called variolation. I warn you, this is rather gross—they inhaled powdered smallpox scabs."

"What on earth for?"

"Gave them a very mild case of smallpox, and then they became immune afterwards. Two percent mortality rate, but that's much better than the disease itself."

"How can you possibly know this?"

"University. I had to write a report on infectious diseases. I may have fudged my sources a tad…in actuality most of my research came from Wikipedia, but _shh_." Rory ignored Petrus' befuddled expression and continued. "Now, is there anyone highly at risk of contracting smallpox but hasn't been exposed yet?"

Petrus nodded. "My sister. She works near the barracks, where the men first became sick, but she hasn't gone to work since the disease broke out and she's not showing symptoms. If she agrees, my father can bring her over."

"How old is she?"

"Thirty."

"And she's in good health?"

"Very."

Rory nodded. "Very well, then."

* * *

><p>Petrus' sister, Celia, edged cautiously into Galen's study, clutching her father's hand. Rory glanced up from his bookwork. Then he realized what he had just seen and looked back at the family with wide eyes.<p>

"Aren't you a bit young to have grandchildren?" he asked the father.

Tacitus grinned, crow's feet forming around his crinkled eyes. "I'm old enough. How long's it been, Mr. Rory? Over forty years, I think. Impossible. Incredible."

"Yup, that's me! Defying the laws of nature, or so it seems, anyway." said Rory. "Now, your daughter, Celia, is pregnant. Very pregnant."

"What does that matter?" asked Celia.

"Well, I really don't think contracting a mild case of smallpox is in your best interests right now. Could damage the fetus."

Celia looked crestfallen. "But I wanted to help. Petrus told me you could save people's lives."

"Thank you, but I'm not willing to risk the health of your unborn child. You understand."

Celia nodded reluctantly.

"Good," said Rory, standing. "Now, we must find another test subject, then."

Tacitus fidgeted uncomfortably.

"What is it, Tacitus?" asked Rory. "I can tell you have a question."

"It's none of my business, Mr. Rory, but what exactly is this 'vaccine' Petrus told us about?"

"Oh, that? It's a way of preventing the spread of the disease. I can show you—" Rory groped around his desk for the variolation vial. His hand grasped only air. "Um…it was here a second ago. I don't—weird. Very weird. Uh—"

"You misplaced it?" Anger edged Tacitus' voice.

"Well, it must be around here somewhe—"

Tacitus drew closer to Rory. "You have a means to save hundreds of thousands of people from suffering agonizing deaths, like the one my son just narrowly escaped, and you just _misplaced_ it?"

Rory turned guiltily to search the shelving for the vial. "I'm sorry. It's not like me—I don't ever lose things. _Especially_ not important things."

Behind him, Tacitus rolled his eyes in disgust. "Yes, you do."

Rory leaned on his toes to search the top shelf. "What would you know about it?"

"You lost your girlfriend."

Rory froze. In the ensuing silence, Celia shifted awkwardly. "I'll…be outside," she whispered, backing out the door and pulling it closed behind her.

Rory kept his back to Tacitus. "I've known you for nearly your entire life," he said softly, "but I never dreamt I'd hear you say that. You've changed, Tacitus."

"Time does that to people," retorted Tacitus, looking Rory up and down. "Well, _most_ people, anyway."

Staring at his feet, Rory took a deep breath. "You're angry."

"Of course I'm angry! Your mistakes cost lives, Mr. Rory. The ship, sinking, and now your lost cure! Your carelessness kills people."

"No, you're not just angry about that. You're mad at me. Nearly half a century's passed, and you've gone and had kids and are well on your way to becoming a grandfather. Let's face it, your life's almost finished. And then you run into me, and I'm the same as ever. You're mad because, however much you want to deny it, you're envious." Rory reseated himself and dug out some papers, avoiding Tacitus' gaze.

"Of course I'm envious," muttered Tacitus. "Eternal life. People have fought and died for a mere taste of the meal in which you're partaking—the chance to live forever."

"It's not like that. Have you ever heard of Tithonus?"

"I've heard the name before. Why?"

"Well, in Greek mythology, Tithonus was granted eternal life; however, he neglected to ask for everlasting youth. He was doomed to live, and age, forever, becoming what one author would call 'a white-haired shadow roaming like a dream,' destined never to be with the woman he loved. My point, Tacitus, is that sometimes things that seem desirable aren't quite what you expect them to be."

Tacitus took a deep breath. "Well, perhaps eternal life is not as wonderful as it seems, but a second chance at living a normal life would mean the world to some of these smallpox victims. Let's find this vaccine."

Rory nodded. "Yes, let's."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>: No, no, no, this story's not finished. I've been extraordinarily busy for the last few weeks, but I thought you deserved at least a teaser! Galen, Rory, and Tacitus are going to find something very interesting soon, even if they don't understand it quite yet. As always, please let me know what you think. In the meantime, I hope you're enjoying the new series of Doctor Who.

Allons-y!


	6. The Other Doctor: Part 2

**The Other Doctor**

**Part 2**

Tacitus followed hard on Rory's heels as the pair speed-walked down the corridor.

"We need scabs," Rory was saying. "Therefore, we need patients who are in the later stages of the disease. Which is difficult, as most victims are long dead before reaching that stage. Your son was lucky," he noted as the pair burst into Petrus' room.

"Good to hear," said Tacitus. "But, where is he? I thought he'd be here."

"So did I. Maybe he strolled off to stretch his legs."

"Perhaps, but Celia also agreed to meet us here. Where's she?"

A figure strode by the door. "Galen?" called Rory. The doctor poked his head around the doorframe. "Have you seen Petrus or Celia?" Rory asked.

"No. Petrus isn't in bed?"

"No."

"Well, there's only one way out of the building, and my assistant's been watching it. Nobody's left that way. And a sick man's not going to be climbing out of windows."

"But Petrus isn't here," said Rory.

"Obviously not. So, where'd he go?"

Rory began feeling the bedsheets. His brows furrowed as his fingers closed around something lumpy beneath the linen. "Over here!" he called, flipping back the sheets to reveal a crumpled washcloth. And, on the cloth—

"It's a note," said Rory, indicating the charcoal scratches on the fabric.

"What's it say?" asked Tacitus, leaning closer.

"Just 'the garden'. Which garden is that?"

Silence.

"Tacitus? D'you know which garden Petrus was talking about?"

Tacitus stared blankly into space, but nodded. "Several years ago. My wife and I were at a dinner party. We were having a fine evening; jokes, stories, and food…you know. We were reminiscing and sharing a laugh when…well, she keeled over. Dead. She still had a smile on her face."

"I'm sorry," said Rory.

"It's all right," said Tacitus. "It was her time. We were growing old. I still am. Soon enough, I'll join her."

Rory put a hand on Tacitus' shoulder. "Can you take us there? To the garden?"

Tacitus nodded, ducking through the door. "This way."

"Galen, you ought to come too."

"Why?" asked Galen.

"Not sure," said Rory as the trio headed onto the street. "I just have a feeling, you know?"

"Fine by me," said Galen.

As Tacitus led the way, Galen leaned closer. "What happened to the cure?" he whispered into Rory's ear.

"I told you," said Rory, "it's not a cure. It's a vaccine. Prevents the disease, not cures it. And…it's gone. Don't know how it disappeared, but it did. I can make more once we find Petrus."

"You lost it?" asked Galen.

"Don't lash out. Tacitus gave me enough trouble already."

"I wasn't going to," said Galen. "But, last time I checked, the gods don't often misplace things."

"You're a man of science," said Rory. "You never thought I was a god, did you?"

"Well, I didn't jump to that conclusion," conceded Galen. "But you did know things I never told a soul. Like my father's vision. He said he saw a god, who commanded him to make me into a physician. Was that a delusion? Did you orchestrate that?"

Rory didn't make eye contact. "Galen, it's not my place to shatter faith, either your father's or your own. Does it really matter whether what he saw was the gods' work or not? All that matters is that his vision led you here, shaped your life. Was it for the better?"

"Yes," said Galen. "Definitely for the better."

The trio trudged on in silence for some time. Finally Galen opened his mouth. "Thank you," he whispered. "I see how Tacitus looks at you. He's angry, but there's some grudging admiration in his eyes as well. Whatever doubts you may have about your abilities, I know you're a capable and good man. A very good man, _Aesculapius_."

The corners of Rory's mouth turned up in a faint smile.

"We're here," interrupted Tacitus, his hand on an ivied gate. "The garden of the Hortensii. Where my wife died. Do you think Petrus'll be here?"

"Let's find out," said Rory.

The gate swung open at Rory's touch, and the three men strode along the stone-paved path into an alcove of flowers.

"He's not here," said Galen. "Not unless he's hiding among the lilacs."

"Let's look around anyway. You never know," said Rory, poking around the bushes.

Tacitus advanced slowly through the garden, approaching a marble bench half-shaded by an olive tree. Something on his face betrayed the depths of his emotion. If Rory had to hazard a guess, he'd say that the bench was the last place Tacitus had seen his wife alive. The old man ran a finger along the stone and then sat gingerly upon a corner.

"Tacitus, don't move," said Rory.

"Why not?" asked Tacitus worriedly.

Rory pointed to the ground near the man's feet. "Whatever you did, it's unlocked something." As they watched, a section of cobblestone silently slid backwards, uncovering a man-sized hole enveloped in darkness.

Rory leaned over the hole. "All right, me first."

"You're going down there?" asked Galen. "Is that a good idea?"

"No," echoed Rory's voice from the depths of the hole.

Galen rolled his eyes. "I'm coming."

"I am as well!" Tacitus hopped off the bench with uncharacteristic agility.

"Watch your step," said Rory. "There's an outcropping."

"Ow!"

"Sorry, Galen. Told you."

"Perhaps a little more advance warning next time," grumbled Galen.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"And perhaps a light?"

"Sure!" said Rory. "Hold on."

Galen failed to see what exactly Rory did, but less than five seconds later a shred of Rory's tunic was wrapped around a stick and glowing orange with flame.

"Come on," said Rory. "The tunnel gets wider up here."

The flickering light bounced off the cave—no, cavern—walls. The ceiling, once brushing Galen's thinning hair, now loomed overhead, far beyond the reach of the torchlight.

"Wow," Rory's sentiment echoed through the chamber. "I'd say we just stumbled on something important."

"I agree," said Galen. "Tacitus, do you happen to know what this place might be?"

Silence.

"Tacitus?" called Rory, spinning around. "You there?"

"He was right behind me," said Galen.

"Oh, this is very, very not good," said Rory. "The note, the tunnel, the theft of the cure…it smells like a trap to me."

"Who'd want to trap us? Why?"

"Well, there are loads of reasons people would want to trap me. I've had more than enough time to make enemies, even inadvertently. But, specifically, no, I don't know why."

"Wait, what's here?" interjected Galen. "Bring the light closer."

Rory obliged.

"Do you see that?" asked Galen. "This is a cave set in bedrock. Smooth walls, right?"

"Very smooth," agreed Rory.

"_Too_ smooth," said Galen. "Too perfect to be natural. This cave was carved. But there aren't any tool marks. The walls seem almost…polished. Almost as if they weren't made by humans."

Rory was quiet.

"I know, that sounds utterly ludicrous."

"No, no," said Rory. "That's the sanest explanation for all this. It's the _only_ explanation. The question is, who? Could be the Silurians. The last time I saw them, quite a few tried to kill me. One of them succeeded. But why would they be active here? No, the motive just doesn't fit. Who else? The fish vampires? The giant eyeball-policey-things?"

"Rory, do you need to sit down?" Galen sounded a bit nervous.

"What?"

"Are you having some sort of fit?"

"Wha-? No, of course not. But I wish the Doctor were here. He'd solve everything."

"_I'm_ a doctor," huffed Galen.

"No, not that sort of doctor. I'm talking about _the_ Doctor. The definite article. But he's not here, of course, and I can't afford to engage in wishful thinking. Think, Rory, think!" Rory began pacing the floor. "Atraxi, no. Prisoner Zero, no. Vampire-fish-y things…definitely not." He stopped and shrugged. "Well, that does it. I'm lost."

"Ah, but we never lose track of you, Rory Williams," said a familiar voice.

Rory swiveled around to find two eyes a foot away from his own.

"Sleep," whispered the voice, and a pair of hands grasped Rory's neck. "_Sleep_."

As apathetic Tacitus choked the breath from Rory's body, the only thought that ran through the nurse's head was simple: _I wish the Doctor were here._

* * *

><p>The sheets were warm, the pillows soft. Rory drew them closer to his body, lost in the fetal comfort that made him feel secure. Here, in his own bed, he was safe from the terrors of the outside world, like the horrors of—<p>

He bolted upright.

–last night.

"_Tacitus_," Rory growled, and grabbed his tunic.

* * *

><p>The nurse-turned-soldier was still fumbling with his clothes as he burst into Tacitus' villa. "WHERE'S TACITUS?" he bellowed. A servant put a hand out to stop him, but Rory barreled past into the bedroom.<p>

"What the _heck_ did you do to me?" he yelled. And then he stopped and surveyed the room.

Petrus stood to one side, stone-faced. Celia was equally ashen, and a silent tear ran down her cheek. And, laid on his bed, face paler than his sheets, was Tacitus.

Rory didn't need his extensive medical training to know that Tacitus was on his deathbed.

"Mr. Rory?" Tacitus croaked.

"I don't understand," said Rory. "What happened?"

"I was wondering the same thing."

"The last I remember, you were trying to strangle me," said Rory. "Then I just woke up here."

"Me?" even as weak as Tacitus was, Rory could sense the indignation in his voice. "Why in heaven's name would I do that? I blacked out right after you disappeared down the hole. I don't remember a thing."

Few things were as honest as a man on his deathbed, so Rory let go of his anger and believed him.

"Show me your hands," Rory commanded.

Tacitus obliged.

"Your wrists are swollen. Indicative of a recent strenuous physical exertion. Like throttling. So, you did try to kill me, but you don't remember. And neither do I. Who else was with us? Galen? What did he say?"

"The doctor stopped by earlier," said Celia. "He doesn't remember anything that happened after entering the tunnel."

"And Petrus? What about you?"

"I don't remember a thing."

"All right, then," said Rory. "Four of us have amnesia. What happened that we don't remember? This rings of something sinister. There's a mystery here that needs to be solved."

"A mystery, I regret to say, you must unravel without me," wheezed Tacitus. "We've had many adventures, old man, and I haven't always agreed with you. But you've a good soul, Mr. Rory."

"It's all right, you know," said Rory. "No pain. It's really quite peaceful, like a deep sleep."

Tacitus closed his eyes. "And I'll see my love again."

"Yes, you will," agreed Rory.

"So will you," whispered Tacitus. "Soon enough. But…in quite a different manner, I think."

Rory edged onto the bed and held his hand. It was cool to the touch. He forced a small smile. "Aren't you too young to be moving on?"

Tacitus's mouth twitched into a limp smile at the mention of their old joke. "Deep down, my friend, I think everyone is."

* * *

><p>Rory closed the door as he left. If he strained he could just make out the continued whispers of Celia and Petrus and the fading wheezes of their father.<p>

"Paid your respects?" came Galen's voice from the end of the corridor.

Rory nodded.

"So did I. I'm sorry."

Another nod.

"But I have good news," continued Galen. "The child has recovered."

Rory instantly brightened up. "Gallus? He's all right?"

"Quite. But he's asking for his parents. What should I tell him?"

Rory was quiet for some time. "He'll have a caretaker. I promise him that. But…I'd make a terrible father."

"So, what's your plan?"

Fate chose that moment to open the door, and Celia's wet eyes emerged from the bedroom. "I heard what you said," she whispered. "A child that needs a family. And I have a family that needs a child. Gallus will be safe with me, and"—she patted her round belly—"he'll have a sibling soon enough."

And she ducked back into the quiet room and shut the door behind her.

"You know, Rory, I think you'd make an excellent father."

Rory shook his head. "I can't even keep a firm hold on my girlfriend. A child…well, my offspring'd go running off throughout time and space."

"Give it time."

"One last thing," said Rory. "Do you remember how to make the smallpox vaccine?"

Galen nodded. "Crushed scabs, yes."

"OK, good. Inoculate people. The bakers, the children, the midwives. The ordinary people. Save lives."

"I'm a doctor, Rory. That's what I do best."

Deep down, Rory agreed.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Yipee! Another story done! Sorry I've been so long. I've been marooned on an isolated island with spotty wi-fi and carnivorous gulls (no, really, I'm not kidding.) Thanks to all of you who've been reading my stories! I love reading your comments. So, there's obviously more to come, and this strange amnesia will be explained, I promise. In the meantime, I hope I've given you a small something to stave off the boredom induced by the lack of new Doctor Who episodes!

Allons-y!


	7. When They Fall I: Beginning of the End

**When They Fall**

**Part I: The Beginning of the End**

Mini-Story Summary: Rome's days are numbered. Would-be invaders loom on the horizon. In the midst of a collapsing civilization, Rory must make difficult choices, new enemies, and new friends to keep the Pandorica safe.

* * *

><p>410 A.D.<p>

Rory paced the dry stone fortifications, shield in one hand, spear in the other. Every torch he passed set his armor glimmering in the flame. The nurse-turned-soldier, parading the Aurelian Walls of Rome, was doing what he'd promised to do over three hundred years ago. Each second of his nighttime guard duties was a step closer to reuniting with Amy.

The waiting, though, was the worst part. Each second buried Amy ever further beneath the crushing weight of three centuries' ceaseless memories. Rory's short stint in the TARDIS was no more than a dream, and even his life in Leadworth was becoming foggy, the memories seeping away like water in a sieve.

It was enough to drive him mad.

He'd developed a few tricks over the years, some games to pass the time. He numbered each step he took, and for the year of his life that corresponded to that number, he thought of a memory. Bonus points if that memory included Amy.

"Eighteen," he muttered as his left foot touched the cobblestone. _My age when I started working at the hospital. Amy, with all her talk about the Doctor, never told me to do it, but I went and did it anyway, didn't I? Just to impress her. Now look at me. Seventeen hundred years until she's even born, and here I am, guarding her, just to tell her I've been waiting for her. Waiting for her approval._

"Stupid," he said to himself. "Rae, Tacitus, Gallus…all the lives I've twisted…all because I was impulsive. Rash. Gosh, I was young, and stupid! So, so stupid."

"Oh, come to a revelation, have you?" A watchman poked his grinning face through the tower door.

"Buzz off, Junius," Rory grumbled, sitting down.

"Not a chance," quipped the soldier, hopping through the door and surveying the pitch-black sky. "Fine evening, eh?"

"It _was_."

Oh, don't act that way," Junius said, flopping down beside him. "We all know under that crunchy exterior, you're a real softy inside. Like those Greek pastries, the ones with the walnuts, y'know?"

"Baklava," grunted Rory.

"Baklava? What would you know about food? I've never seen you so much as touch your rations."

"Never hungry."

"Huh, never sleepy either, are you? I'm half-dead by the end of my shift, but you've gone three times that, back-to-back, without even blinking. You know what, Rory? You're weird."

"Thanks, Junius," huffed Rory.

Junius opened his mouth, but his words were drowned in the blasting of a distant horn.

"Oh, that's my signal," he said, jumping to his feet. "Shift's over! Off to bed. You have a good night, Rory. Don't go letting any Trojan horses through, eh?"

"Well, if I see any giant mythical horses approaching through the darkness, we'll know the wine's gone bad."

Junius laughed. "'Til later, then." He ducked through the tower door, and, once again, Rory was utterly alone.

Rory leaned his spear and shield against the ramparts, listening to Junius' fading footsteps. Once he was certain no eyes were watching, he slid a hand beneath his chestplate and pulled out the note he kept hidden there. The smeared writing, two centuries old, held a message as poignant as the day the dying Tacitus had passed it with to him. Rory had long since memorized the words, but the note reminded him every minute of the task he was bound to perform.

_When they fall, _it said, _don't stand behind them._

Rome was dying. Everyone felt it, Rory most of all. War was coming, and he'd fight on the winning side.

Casting one final look over his shoulder, Rory leapt over the ramparts into the chill night air.

* * *

><p>Once again, Rory's Auton endurance came in handy as he raced through the woods, faster than any human could dream of running. Each step carried him farther from Rome and closer to his task. Trees whizzed by at inestimable speeds. He could hear fauna scurry from his path as he darted past, and the occasional owl hooting from distant branches in protest.<p>

"Rory."

Rory skidded to a halt, leaf litter flying everywhere.

"Rory."

"Who's there?" Rory scanned the trunks for the source of the voice.

Silence.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

After a few seconds, Rory spun around to resume his journey.

A face was blocking his path.

"Rory," it whispered in a voice like the leaf-strewn wind.

Rory jumped back. "Quintus? Is that you?"

"Open the Pandorica."

Rory blinked, confused. "What?"

"Rory, open the Pandorica."

"Quintus, you're dead. How can you be here?"

"Open it. Remember."

Then, the ghost was gone.

"Oh, I'm going crazy," muttered Rory with a shiver. "Just like the Doctor said. Time's driving me mad."

Then, shaking his head, he continued on his way.

* * *

><p>Rory slowed to a walk once he spotted the campfires. Pulling his helmet off, he strode into the firelight.<p>

"I'm Roranicus," he announced to the Barbarian guard. "I'm here for Alaric."

"The commander of the Visigoths won't see just anyone, y'know," said the watchman.

"Oh, he'll see me."

* * *

><p>The suspicious eyes of the Visigoth soldiers did not go unnoticed as Rory marched towards the commander's tent. Rory stifled a chuckle. These centuries were so quaint. The soldiers worshiped their mystic pantheons and put stock in ludicrous superstitions, but found the sight of a Roman at the Barbarian encampment utterly impossible. He was still laughing silently as he ducked through the tent flap.<p>

"Oh. You again."

"Nice to see you too, Alaric," said Rory, sinking onto a stool.

"I can't say the same for you," said the Visigoth commander, sipping liquid from a golden goblet. "Last time, you prophesized that I'd invade Rome. 'Penetrate to the city,' you said."

"I said nothing of the sort," Rory protested.

"Words whispered to my ear in a sacred grove? You have such a taste for theatrics, Roranicus. Only you would do something that melodramatic, while being so dramatically _wrong_. I was defeated by your people, Roman."

"Yet here you are," said Rory. "Poised to strike Rome once again. Anyway, yeah, the voice in the sacred grove, that was me. Probably the strangest way I've ever dispensed advice, but I was afraid of being seen."

"Bad advice, no less."

"No, not bad advice. Good advice, just given a bit too soon. What was the year…401 A.D.? Yeah. And now it's 410."

Alaric leaned closer. "Nine years. Most would call that a big gap."

Rory met his gaze. "You know what I'd call it? Dyslexia."

"What?"

"The dates. 401, 410—same difference."

"Well," said the Visigoth, adjusting his seat, "whatever arbitrary calendar you're using, you know as well as I do that the clock is winding down. Rome was once the envy of the civilized world. Now it's our turn." He took another smug sip from his goblet. "You know what 'Alaric' means?"

Rory shook his head.

"'King of All'. An interesting name, wouldn't you say? One might almost call it…prophetic."

"So, you want to rule the world?" asked Rory cautiously.

"No," said Alaric, "just to tear down those who think they do. I believe you can help me with that."

Rory cleared his throat. "Uh, well I certainly can. I perform guard duties at the Porta Salaria. In addition to valuable information, I can provide an easy means of entry to the city."

"That would be excellent, Roranicus. But, how freely you offer your services! So, out with it. What do you want in return?"

"I simply want what I've always wanted. The reason I've been visiting you over the course of your life, committing treason against Rome. It's all preparation for the end. When Rome falls, I'm not standing behind it. So, with my help, you'll get inside the walls, and you will promise to leave the Pantheon and its contents untouched."

"The Pantheon? An old relic to forgotten gods. A pretty lump of shaped stones, nothing more. Why would you care?"

"Call it a promise, made long ago. Tradition. My duty, above all else, is to do whatever's necessary to ensure the safety of the Pantheon's contents. I want you to swear that you and your men will not set so much as a toe over its threshold." He wanted the Visigoths to stay as far away as possible from the Pandorica.

Alaric looked confused. "What? No requests for gold, glory, fame? That's what most men want. You're different, Roranicus. Strange. Anyway, what makes you think I'll keep my word, uncivilized Barbarian that I am?"

"You're more civilized than most of today's Romans. A man of your word."

Alaric chuckled. "You're right. I'm no liar. Very well, then. If you get me behind the walls of Rome, I give you my word that none of us shall set foot inside the Pantheon. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Rory, and Roman and Visigoth sealed their pact with a handshake. "Well," he said, jamming his watchman's helmet on his head, "it's been great. It's a relief to meet someone with a name that doesn't end in 'us'. Junius, Julius, Marcus, Aurelius…all these names blend together over the years. Anyway, I'd best go before someone notices I'm gone."

"What? Rome's a week's ride away. They're inevitably going to notice your absence—that is, if they haven't already."

"Well, I'll just run, then. It's much faster," said Rory with an elusive grin. Then he lifted the tent flap. "See you soon enough, Alaric. Don't forget your promise."

* * *

><p>Scaling the Aurelian Wall undetected was the most difficult part of the trip. Hand over hand, Rory pulled his way up the cut stones, trying his best not to groan or pant too heavily. He'd always suffered from a mild case of vertigo, but Rory carefully avoided looking down. All the same, he breathed a silent sigh of relief as he heaved himself over the ramparts and back onto the walkway. After a brief moment to regain his composure, he grabbed his sword and spear and resumed his watch. Safe.<p>

"Rory," whispered a voice above the faint bustling of the city.

_Oh no_, thought Rory. _Here comes hallucination number two_. Then he swiveled around. "Hello, Lucine," he said. "How's life? Oh, wait, sensitive question. You've been dead for several centuries, haven't you? But here you are."

"Rory," said Lucine, eyes fixed upon some distant sight. "Open the Pandorica."

"Why?"

"Amelia Pond must survive."

"Well, that's what I've been trying to do. Keep her safe. How's opening the Pandorica going to help? It's like cutting off her life support, for crying out loud. It'd kill her."

"Open it."

Then Rory blinked, and the phantom was gone. "Mad. I've gone completely mad."

* * *

><p>THIRTEEN DAYS LATER<p>

Rory adjusted the straps on his armor as he strode towards his watch. The muggy, twilit streets were swarming with people hustling to get home before dark and market workers packing away their stalls. He caught snippets of conversations as he passed.

"Have you heard the rumors? Claudius tells me the Visigoths are closing in."

"Indeed! Could be here any day, that's what my sister says."

"Scary, that's what it is. These are dark days to live in."

Rory ducked into the armory, muffling the conversations behind a thick wooden door. Nestled in the corner were his favorite sword and shield.

"Evening, Roranicus," came a voice from behind Rory's shoulder.

"Junius," Rory acknowledged, slipping his sword into its sheath. "You're on watch tonight too?"

Junius nodded. "Last-minute switch. Why? I'm not disrupting any secret plans of yours, am I?"

Rory forced a laugh. "You git," he half-joked. "You caught me."

The fellow watchman jammed his helmet onto his head and grinned lopsidedly. "Let's go."

The pair each pulled a spear from a rack on their way out the door.

"Ready for another boring night?" asked Junius as they climbed up the tower staircase.

"It'll be boring only if we're lucky," Rory quipped, taking the stairs two at a time.

"All those dark, dull, dreary watches, though…don't you ever yearn for some action?" Junius asked, huffing as he tried to keep pace.

Rory shot a side-glance out an arrow-slit as he passed. The sun had nearly set, and some towering clouds loomed on the horizon. "As a rule, I don't go looking for trouble. It finds me easily enough as is."

They continued in silence until they reached the top of the staircase and strode outdoors. "Tell you what," said Rory. "I'll guard the gatehouse tonight if you take my stretch of the wall. Changes things up, y'know?"

"Agreed." Junius turned left. "See you in a couple of hours."

Rory nodded and headed for the gatehouse. He reached the twin turrets just as the sun dipped below the earth. The thunderclouds rolled closer; Rory could all but taste the electricity in the air.

The storm heralded its arrival with a single raindrop upon the cobblestone. Then another, tickling as it slid down Rory's nose. Then the first spear of lightning arced across the sky, followed closely by a rumble that rattled the mortar beneath his feet.

"Perfect," Rory muttered. Now, he could use his hand-gun to his heart's content; the guards would mistake the laser's report for the roar of the thunder above. He cast a look to either side. A gatehouse turret blocked Junius's view, and the other guards were well beyond sight. Nobody was watching. Which left Rory to do as he pleased.

Rory slid his sword-point through a gap in the gatehouse door and lifted the lock bar from its groove. He re-sheathed his weapon as the door swung open with a satisfactory creak. At the bottom of the turret stairs was the gate room, gleaming with well-oiled winches. Through the murder holes in the floor, Rory could see the reinforced oaken gate directly beneath. A chain snaked up through the floor to the winches above; snap it, and the doors would swing open to welcome whatever intruders were camped outside. Which, right now, were Alaric and his Visigoth army, poised just beyond sight, ready to sack Rome. Tonight, Rory would make history.

Two guards stood before either winch. Rory sighed; he should have known the military would never leave such an important building unguarded. Very well, then. He'd just have to find a clever way to handle them.

He jumped into the middle of the room. "I'm a traitor!" he announced. "I've sold information to the barbarians and am about to cause the destruction of the greatest civilization in history. Try to stop me."

The surprised soldiers spun around, spears at the ready. At the sight of Rory's face, they relaxed and laughed. "Nice one, Roranicus," one chortled, grinning. "Did Junius put you up to this?"

Not at all the anticipated reaction, but Rory could use it nonetheless. "Yeah," he shrugged. "He needs the pair of you over at the Southern gate. They're short-staffed. I'll cover for you here."

The watchmen nodded, still smiling, and shuffled out of the room.

Once they were out of view, Rory breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever the circumstances, he was glad to avoid fighting his colleagues.

Rory's palm flopped open and he aimed his hand-gun at the iron chain. The lightning outside drowned out the laser flash, and the bang of the gun was lost amidst rumbles of thunder. As the half-melted chain fell limply to the floor, a heavy groan accompanied the opening of the gates below.

Rory sprinted up the stairs to the very top of the turret. The night-watch torches, fully fueled, stood in their stands, ready to be lit. Rory lifted one from its sleeve, pulling a small alabaster vial from its hiding place in the folds of his tunic. He tugged off the stopper and poured the vial's liquid contents onto the business end of the torch. Then he felt his tunic.

"Not good. I forgot the flint," he said aloud. The pounding rain would make any friction-sparked fire impossible, and, at any rate, the tinder was soaked through. A burst from his hand-gun was more likely to blow the turret to bits than to set the torch alight, so that simply wasn't an option. But there was an alternative, of which Rory was not particularly fond. Rory's body was powered by electricity; what he needed was an electrical fire.

"Fine, then," he grumbled, setting the torch aside. He then proceeded to pull off his breastplate and tunic. An old gash, neatly stitched, stretched from his collarbone to an inch above his leggings. Perhaps, this one time, his inability to heal would come in handy, for if the stitches were loosened, the cut would be accessible.

Rory drew his sword and reversed his grip, guiding the point towards his chest. As the tip sliced through a hand's length of stitches, Rory grimaced. It didn't hurt at all; rather, Rory hated the grim reminder that beneath the skin and personality, he was still an inhuman facsimile of his former self. The blade-work done, he dropped his sword and slipped a hand into his chest. _This is why I never wanted to be a surgeon_, he thought, groping around for a suitable wire. At last, his fingers closed around a thin cord that pulsed with the warmth of electricity.

"God, I hope this doesn't do anything vital," he whispered, and cut the wire.

Sparks cascaded from the gap in his chest like a miniature fireworks display. In a burst of effort, Rory seized the torch and held it close. It exploded with miraculous flames, fueled by the chemicals Rory had poured upon it. A bright green flame cut like a beacon through the storm. Rory waved the torch a few times, keeping his eye on the distant forest. A momentary glint of a distant flame was enough to assure him that Alaric had received his message: the gate was open.

The torch flame spluttered and danced in the rain, finally hissing away into darkness. Rory collapsed to the cobblestone. He pushed his breastplate against his chest to muffle the spray of sparks and slowly pulled his tunic back over his head. Rory felt weaker, as if each spark stole a week of his life force as it fizzled against the inside of his armor. His legs seemed sluggish, so he grabbed his spear and hefted the crossbar from the torch rack to serve as makeshift crutches. Slowly, awkwardly, he inched down the stairs. An occasional glance through the arrow-slits showed Rory the darkness descending upon the land, but not only the dark of nightfall; the approaching shadow, Rory knew, was composed of hundreds—no, _thousands_—of men. Alaric was coming.

Far too late, Rory heard the distant blasts of the alarm horn and the futile cries of the Roman defenders. A faint vibration shook the gatehouse as the Visigoths stormed through the archway beneath.

Rory made it as far as the ninth stair from the bottom before his spear snapped and he tumbled down the steps to land in an inglorious heap against the doorframe. After no more than a minute, the door swung open and a hand hauled Rory to his feet and leaned him against the wall.

"Roranicus, you liar," said the watchman, swinging a furious fist into Rory's face. "Junius never summoned us. And what do we find when we return? The gate unlocked and unguarded, a stream of Visigoths pouring through the door! You yellow-bellied, wretched villain! A traitor, that's what you are. A traitor to Rome and every man, woman, and child within its walls."

"I told you so," breathed Rory, head spinning.

The soldier's next right hook smashed into Rory's nose. "I'm bringing you in," he growled. "No torture is too terrible, too painful, for your crime. Before the dawn breaks, you will die, but the people you've betrayed, the families you have doomed…they will haunt you forever."

"They already do," whispered Rory.

Another punch. "Stand up, you dog-hearted knave," said the Roman. "I want you to go to your grave walking on your own cursed feet."

"I can't," spluttered Rory. "Really. I can't feel my legs." Apparently the wire he'd cut was basically equivalent to a human's spinal cord. Everything below his waist was numb and limp. Rory was worse than paralyzed: he was useless.

"Hmph," said the soldier, slinging Rory over his shoulder, "so it seems you're a weakling too."

"Just get me somewhere safe…" Rory's voice warned of impending unconsciousness.

The watchman laughed mirthlessly. "Safe? You've opened the floodgates, Roranicus. Look around you! Rome is burning. The last safe place on Earth just became a war zone."

* * *

><p>Head bobbing limply against the soldier's back, Rory could only gaze helplessly at his surroundings. He vaguely suspected that the watchman was taking him to the military barracks, but in the turmoil, Rory could hardly tell. Citizens, soldiers, and Visigoths alike flooded the streets. Women and sons fled with their prized possessions; Visigoths and Roman lowlifes looted the emptying buildings. Statues and jars and rubble accumulated in heaps in the gutters, and, through the rain, Rory caught whiff of the unmistakable reek of fire.<p>

"I don't believe it," said the watchman.

In the corner of his eye, Rory sighted the barracks; that is, what remained of them: a pile of stone rubble and smoldering rafters. There was no place to go.

"Very well, then," said the soldier. "I'll just have to do it myself." Rory slipped from the man's back and landed facedown in the gutter-water. Above the din of battle and the gurgle of the muddy water, Rory detected the unmistakable _shick_ of a sword being drawn. A metal point dug uncomfortably into his neck. A small amount of pressure would separate his head from his body.

"So," said the watchman, "before I become a murderer, do you have any last words?"

"Give me some time to come up with something memorable. A lifetime might suffice."

Rory could feel the sword-point pressing deeper into his neck.

"STOP!" yelled a familiar voice.

Rory lifted his head to find Junius, thoroughly disheveled and a stream of blood issuing from his scalp, sprinting towards him.

"Gallus, stop this insanity!" Junius addressed the soldier.

"Gallus?" Rory asked, incredulous. "Your name is Gallus?"

"Yes," answered the guard, taken aback. "Why?"

"I knew a Gallus once," said Rory. "Did you take your name from an ancestor?"

"Yes, like most Roman names," countered Gallus. His rage, Rory noted, was slowly dissolving into curiosity.

"He was adopted," said Rory. A confirmation, not a question. "And his adopted grandfather was Tacitus, but they never knew each other."

"Wait, that name sounds familiar," interjected Junius. "You said it before, didn't you, Roranicus? I overheard you muttering a few names—Gallus, Tacitus, and what was the last one? It began with an 'R.'"

"Rae," said Rory. "But, Gallus, am I right? The Gallus I'm describing, was he your ancestor?"

"Yes," breathed Gallus.

"Tell me his story."

"Why should I?" Gallus slid back under the mask of anger. "You're a traitor standing on your own grave, asking for tales to forestall your execution."

"Please," whispered Rory.

Gallus sighed. "My namesake was one of the lucky survivors of the Antonine plague. My father told me that Galen himself and Gallus' tutor worked together to bring him back from the brink of death, and—"

"The tutor," interrupted Rory. "What was his name?"

Gallus' eyes widened with realization. "His name was Roranicus."

Rory smiled.

"So, are you a blood relative of his?" asked Gallus.

"Oh, we're definitely closely related," said Rory. The same person, in fact.

"By the gods!" cried Gallus. "Gallus owed Roranicus his life. He swore to honor his debt, but he never got the chance. The responsibility thus falls to his descendant—me."

"Great," muttered Rory. "You want to repay me? Start by getting your sword away from my jugular vein."

Gallus sheathed his weapon guiltily and pulled Rory to his feet, leaning the paralyzed man against his shoulder. "Nevertheless, you owe me an explanation," said the soldier. "Why did you betray Rome?"

"You have your debts to pay. I have mine. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?" groaned Rory, trying in vain to keep his knees from buckling. "We need to go."

Junius threw one of Rory's arms around his own shoulder to ease the load. "Go? Where can we go? No place is safe."

"I made sure one place would be left untouched," countered Rory. "We need to get to the Pantheon."

* * *

><p>The bizarre sight of two grown men dragging around a third like a helpless child attracted little attention in the chaotic city. Rory dangled helplessly between Gallus and Junius as they staggered through the streets.<p>

"There," said Rory, nodding his head to the left, and the trio adjusted course. Soon enough, the stone pillars of the Parthenon loomed overhead. And ahead—

"Something's wrong," said Rory. "The doors are open."

At that moment, the holler of a lone Visigoth signaled danger. Rory fell to the ground as Gallus and Julius turned around, simultaneously drawing their swords. In front of him, nestled in the heart of the Parthenon's spectacular chamber, stood the Pandorica. Surrounded by opulent marble that stretched upward into a magnificent dome, bedecked with gilded statues, the Pantheon was a fitting home for the Pandorica.

Then Rory saw the soldiers.

Three Visigoths had violated Rory's agreement and entered the Pantheon. One's eyes gleamed with greed as he rocked a statue off its pedestal. The second, a good head taller than Rory, was collecting candlesticks; the third, worst of all, ran a hand along the ridges in the Pandorica, hooked by a dangerous curiosity.

Rory saw red. He pushed himself on his arms over the threshold, legs trailing limply behind. "Get OUT!" he stormed.

"What did you say?" said greedy-eyes dangerously.

"Huh, that Roman's got nerve," said the tall one, towering over Rory. He kicked him, slamming Rory onto the hard marble floor. "Looky here! This whelp can't even walk. It's true what they say, then—the puny dogs make the most noise. Now, if I were you," he said, looking deep into Rory's eyes, "I'd shimmy home as quick as I could and hope we don't stab you on the way there."

"No." Rory would use his hand-gun if he had to; he'd die before leaving the Pandorica vulnerable.

"What's that? Impudence? Come now, what're you going to do?" The tall one pulled Rory's hands together and effortlessly heaved Rory into the air, suspending him by his wrists against the wall. Rory was, for all intents and purposes, immobilized.

The one that had surveyed the Pandorica came closer. "I vote we teach him some respect for authority." He drew a knife from his belt. "Look at that nose of his! All big and pointy and Roman-like. A sign of arrogance, methinks. I don't like arrogance." The knife inched towards Rory's face.

"Don't," spluttered Rory. "Really, just stop."

"That's exactly what we said when the Romans invaded our lands. They didn't listen. Why should we? This is our—" The barbarian stopped, the knife slipping from his hands, and stared at his chest. An arrowhead poked its way through his clothes. Before he could issue a sound, he toppled to the floor, eyes glazed over. Greedy-eyes was next to go. As the tall one groaned and fell, an arrow protruding from his back, Rory saw a bow-wielding figure silhouetted in the archway. The pose was unmistakable.

"Alaric," Rory said.

The Visigoth king nodded, eyeing the threshold but remaining outside. "I am sorry. I told my men that none would enter here, as I promised you. They disobeyed me."

"Thank you," said Rory. "But I don't understand. I'm a traitor to my own people, forsaken by honor. No man would respect an agreement with me. I'd hoped you would, of course, but I didn't expect it. Why?"

"Oh, Roranicus," sighed Alaric. "Look around you. This city died a long time ago. The Roman Empire let its heart rot, and now I'm cleaning it out, making space for new growth. We're all going to hell for it, Roranicus, but I intend for my good deeds to fall short of my evils by only a slight margin. Now, your friends insist upon seeing you. I must go."

"'Till next time, then," said Rory.

"Will there be a next time?"

"No."

Alaric smiled. "Your counsel will be missed, Roman though you are. Very well! Goodbye."

Then he was gone.

"Rory!" Rory turned to find Junius and Gallus running towards him. "Sorry, we were dealing with a few impudent barbarians. So were you, by the look of him." Junius eyed the tall barbarian outstretched on the floor.

"Wait a second," said Rory. "What did you call me?"

"I didn't," said Junius. "Neither did Gallus."

"'Rory', I heard. Nobody uses that name anymore, not except—"

There, emerging from an alcove, was a ghost.

"—my hallucinations," whispered Rory. He squinted his eyes. "Tacitus? Is that you?"

"Rory," said the ghost. "You came. Now open the Pandorica at last."

"Who's that?" asked Junius.

"He looks like me," said Gallus, incredulous.

"Wait, what?" said Rory, eyes flitting between his two companions. "You can see him too?"

"Why not?" asked Gallus. "He's as real as we are."

"Yes," agreed Rory. "Which means I'm not hallucinating."

"Open the Pandorica!" urged the ghost.

"Why?" asked Rory, his hand inching towards one of the Visigoths.

"Roranicus, why does he look like me?" asked Gallus. "Wait, you called him 'Tacitus.'"

Rory's hand closed around a knife handle. "Yes, I did."

"But that means—"

Rory hurled the knife. A thud echoed around the chamber as the "ghost" fell to the floor.

"Impossible," whispered Junius. Sparks flew from the knife-wound.

"Electricity? But that means it's a cyborg or a robot or something," said Rory, moving closer. "It's not a ghost, not a hallucination; it's an _invention_. What for?"

Then he thought back to all those years ago, when Gallus—not the soldier, the child—was sick and his family dead. Galen had brought the child to his practice and asked Rory what had happened to his family's bodies.

_When people die, they leave bodies_, Galen had said. _What happened to them?_

_I don't know_, Rory had answered. As if he had never considered this obvious issue…or, rather—

"I forgot," he said. "I forgot what I did with the bodies of Gallus' family, just like I forgot what happened after Tacitus attacked me. He died shortly afterwards. Now, all these 'ghosts' I've been seeing were people I once knew, people close to me. Somebody needed their bodies. That somebody turned them into _this_." Rory indicated the sparking hulk of electronics that was Tacitus's remains. "That somebody also wanted me to open the Pandorica and erased my memory to hide themselves. Who'd have that capacity?"

"You said 'Tacitus,'" interrupted Gallus. "That's _the_ Tacitus, isn't he? My ancestor. And you called him by name. That means you're not just the ancestor of Roranicus, are you? You're Roranicus himself."

"Whoever did this has technology way ahead of this time," continued Rory, ignoring Gallus. "That leaves three options. One, time's spewing out anomalies again. Just like my old friend, the pterosaur. But this whole dilemma reeks of intelligent manipulation, so I doubt that's the cause. Two, somebody's been copying my technology. Unlikely. So, option three: we're dealing with something alien and belligerent. Not an exciting prospect."

"Aliens? Pterosaurs? Roranicus, you're rambling." Junius looked utterly lost.

"Listen to me," said Rory. "Forget the Visigoths. We're facing something much bigger, scarier, and more insidious than anything we've ever faced. I need you—both of you—at my side."

"Well, I want answers, so count me in," said Gallus.

"Junius? What about you?"

"I'm not so sure," said Junius. "I'm not used to the dangers, the thrills, you know? I'm just a novice."

Rory smiled. "I was the same way once. I won't lie; whatever lies in front of us won't be easy, but I can promise you one thing: it'll be worth it."

Junius nodded. "Have it your way, then. But I still stand by what I said earlier."

Rory cocked an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

"Underneath that shell, you're a real softy inside."

Rory laughed and patted the Pandorica. "Junius, I think you're right."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Finally, another story complete! It's taken me forever, but then again, this chapter's longer than most, so please, please, leave my head attached to my neck. Thank you for your patience and your support! I love reading your reviews, and everybody who's kind enough to leave me one gets a profile view at the very least, and a review of their own if you write for fandoms with which I'm familiar. Just a small gesture of thanks…I wish I could do more.

Also, feel free to check out my other Who fanfic, "The House of Mirrors," a shorter story featuring Rory, the Doctor, Weeping Angels, and more than its fair share of timey-wimeyness. OK, enough with the blatant plugging. Thanks for reading, and tell me what you think!

Allons-y!


	8. When They Fall II: End of the Beginning

**When They Fall**

**Part 2: The End of the Beginning**

Mini-Story Summary: Beneath the ruins of a familiar place, Rory comes face-to-face with the enemies he forgot he had, and faces the most powerful opponent of all—himself.

* * *

><p><span>At the Pantheon<span>

Rory rubbed his hands together. "Right!" he announced. "Let's get cracking. First things first: we need to find Tacitus' grave."

"Roranicus?" asked Gallus. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Rory looked down at his paralyzed legs. "Oh. Right. Serious injury to attend to and all that. Junius, check the body for rubber tubing. Oh, you wouldn't know what rubber is. It's…ah…it's squishy."

"Oh, that's helpful," said Junius sarcastically. "Why do I have to do it?"

Rory sighed. "Because I can't move, and I doubt Gallus wants to loot his own ancestor's body."

"No, no," said Junius. "I meant, why do we need this…tubing?"

Rory proceeded to pull off his breastplate. "For repairs."

"Repai—oh, wow." Junius jumped back as sparks shot like fireworks from the breach in Rory's chest.

"Yeah, exactly," Rory grimaced. "Tubing. Now."

Junius held up a snarl of cables. "Is this it?"

"Bring it here." Rory snatched it from his hand and began fiddling around with his wires. "So, if questions had weight, you two would be crushed. Ask away."

Gallus cleared his throat. "All that metal and sparks…you're like him," he said, nodding towards Tacitus' cyborgified body.

"I'm like him and I'm not like him," said Rory, snipping the tubing with a knife. "I have a lot of the same technology—robotics, it's called— but I'm not, well, _dead_."

"And you knew Tacitus?" asked Gallus. Rory nodded. "But he lived centuries ago!" exclaimed Gallus. "That would make you virtually ancient! When exactly were you born?"

"Well, a long time from now," answered Rory, pulling a severed end of wire from his chest. "Oh, look! Found it. Now, I just need the other cut end."

"When you say 'a long time from now,' do you mean, say, before the birth of Christ? Before the rise of Rome?" Gallus laughed half-jokingly. "The creation of the world?"

"No, the other way," said Rory, fishing out the second severed end. "A long time from now…in the future. Does that make any sense?"

"No," Gallus said, watching Rory thread the insulating tubing over the severed wires.

"Don't worry, I don't understand it either." The sparks stopped flying and Rory's legs twitched. He flexed his knees experimentally. "There! All better. Where was I? Oh, yes—Tacitus. We need to see his grave."

* * *

><p>Behind the retreating backs of Rory, Junius, and Gallus, a pair of Roman soldiers emerged from the Pantheon courtyard.<p>

"All clear?" one asked. The crest on his helmet signified his Centurion rank. The other, apparently his assistant, nodded. The Centurion sighed. "We were so close. The Visigoth king was within bowshot! If only we'd had the arrows instead of him, we could have ended this rampage."

"Did you see the man he was talking to?" asked the assistant. The Centurion shook his head.

The subordinate could barely maintain his calm. "He was a Roman! That man betrayed us to Alaric!"

"Him?" The Centurion beckoned towards Rory's back. The assistant nodded. "Run straight to the Senate," said the Centurion. "This invasion destroyed the livelihoods of the most powerful men in Rome. I'm sure they'll have something to say to the man who led the barbarians through their door."

"Of course, sir," said the assistant. "Where will you be?"

"Me?" asked the officer, adjusting his helmet. "I'm going to follow that man."

* * *

><p>Gallus led his companions unerringly to a time-worn cemetery.<p>

"This is the old family plot," said Gallus, indicating a row of headstones highlit by the clear dawn sky. "Tacitus has the oldest one."

Rory approached the grave slowly. It was empty, Rory knew; the body that should have rested beneath the ivy-encrusted headstone had instead found peace two centuries later by the blade of Rory's throwing knife. Nevertheless, Rory stepped over the ground where the coffin was buried, dogged by a guilty conscience. He peered closely at the headstone.

_Tacitus Horatius_, the engraving read. _Father, Husband, and Friend_. And then, beneath that:

_All words begin and end with Silence._

"That's downright cryptic," muttered Rory.

"Are you talking about Tacitus' epitaph?" asked Gallus, moving closer. "I think he designed this headstone before he died. The old man must've been delirious at the time, because it makes no sense."

Rory's eyes fell on the ivy obscuring the lower portion of the stone. "Maybe it makes perfect sense; we're just missing something. Help me get these vines off," he ordered.

Beneath two centuries' growth of leaves was more weathered marble. Rory brushed off the last wisps of ivy and stood back to survey his handiwork.

"Oh," was all Rory could say.

Etched into the stone was a scene. A bench sat upon a patch of grass, but far beneath the ground was a hollow, a cave. In that cave stood a figure; however, that figure was not Tacitus, not even human.

"It's the Silence," whispered Rory.

"I don't understand," said Junius.

"I'd forgotten," said Rory, "but long ago someone told me what Tacitus' name meant. It means "silence." And, look! 'Silence,' in the epitaph, is written with a capital 'S.' You capitalize names. Silence is a name, and just as Gallus shares his name with his ancestor, Tacitus shares the name 'Silence'"—Rory pointed to the figure—"with _that._ Junius, meet the Silence."

"Hello, Silence," said Junius unhelpfully.

"I had it all wrong, you see," said Rory. He pulled a slip of paper from his tunic and handed it to his companion.

"'When they fall, don't stand behind them,'" Junius read aloud.

"Yeah. I thought it referred to the fall of Rome. Tacitus and I had mentioned the subject once or twice; I took it as a warning. Well, it was a warning, but not against the Romans. It's a warning against the Silence! You see, 'fall' doesn't just mean 'downfall.' It also means 'a coming,' like nightfall, the coming of night. 'When they fall' is a warning against the coming of the Silence. 'When the Silence come, stay away.' That's the real meaning of Tacitus' last words."

"Wait, what Silence?" asked Junius, looking at Rory.

Rory looked confused. "The one in the picture."

"There isn't any picture," protested Junius.

"Yes, there is! Look," said Rory, pointing.

Junius' eyes moved back to the headstone and widened in realization. "Wait, that carving looks strange, almost alien. What is it?" Then he gasped. "Oh. It's the Silence. You just told me that, but I forgot. How did I forget?"

"You stopped looking at the picture," observed Rory. "Junius, look away."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Junius averted his eyes. "What were we talking about?"

"There," said Rory. "You just forgot. Okay, look back at the carving."

Junius obeyed. "Whoa. Is that the Silence?"

"See? Now you remember again." Rory looked at Junius. "So, you can only remember the Silence when you're seeing it? That explains a lot. I've been having gaps in my memory. It was all caused by the Silence."

Gallus jumped into the conversation. "So, what do we do?"

"Well, we have to make sure we don't forget what we've seen," said Rory. He pulled a stick of charcoal from his tunic. "Lucky I keep a writing tool handy. Junius, hold out your hand." Rory seized Junius' extended palm, flipped it over, and began copying the Silent onto his hand. "There," he said finally, "does that look passable?"

Junius diverted his eyes from the headstone and stared at the charcoal-smudge-Silent instead. "It seems to work. I still remember."

"Good," said Rory, now charcoaling his own hand. "Now, keep that image within view at all times so you don't forget." Then he began scribbling on Gallus' hand. "Oh, and Gallus, do you know the name of this place?"

"Yes. It's the Hortensii Cemetery."

"I _knew_ it," Rory breathed.

"How?" asked Gallus, surveying the Silent on his hand. "Is that significant?"

"It's very significant. This place used to be a garden. Tacitus' wife died here. The last time I visited, Tacitus, Galen, and I discovered a secret cave beneath a garden bench. The bench is long gone, but maybe, just maybe, I can still find the cave." Rory pressed an ear to the grass and began shuffling around on his knees, tapping the ground methodically. When he reached the fence, he tapped a few more times and grinned. "It's here."

"How are you going to open it?" asked Junius.

Rory nudged his companions clear. "Like this. Keep back."

A single shot from his hand-gun sent dirt flying. The dust settled to reveal a gaping hole in the ground, a maw in which Rory could spot an aged stone staircase descending into the darkness.

"Excellent! We're in business," said Rory, jumping onto the steps. "Junius, can I borrow your cloak?" Rory wrapped the cloth around the end of his sword and, with another shot, set the cloak aflame.

"Why, thanks," muttered Junius.

"What? It's a torch," explained Rory, heading down the stairs. "Come along! Don't lose sight of the Silence drawings on your hands. Oh, and watch out for the root."

"Ow!" exclaimed Gallus.

"Every time," laughed Rory.

* * *

><p>After Rory, Gallus, and Junius disappeared beneath the ground, the Centurion emerged from his hiding place in the bushes. What he'd just witnessed was impossible, he was certain. He edged closer to the staircase beneath the grass. The Centurion, as a Roman officer, had the prerequisite nerves of steel; nonetheless, the gaping pit deeply unsettled him; its existence was simply <em>wrong<em>.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and stifled a scream.

"Sir?" he recognized the voice of his assistant. "I'm glad I found you. The men are no more than ten minutes behind me."

"Excellent," said the Centurion, shaking off his worry. "I'm eager for retribution…and some answers."

* * *

><p>Rory slowly approached the main cavern, torch held before him like a spear in the darkness. He kept careful track of his companions; he could remember only too well the debacle that had occurred when Tacitus had disappeared under almost identical circumstances.<p>

Junius eyed the sleek stone walls apprehensively. "This place gives me the shivers," he whispered. "I shudder to think of the abominations that live here."

"And the sort of man it takes to stand against them," muttered Gallus, hoping Rory wouldn't hear. "That man has nerves of steel, I think."

"More than just nerves," said Junius. "Did you see that miracle he pulled earlier? His innards are metal. Think about it. _Metal_. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen."

"That man's a riddle wrapped in an enigma and sprinkled with a generous helping of insanity," said Gallus, tiptoeing around a stalagmite. "But, at the risk of sounding irrational, I trust him nonetheless."

"I don't understand, though. He said he was old, very old," said Junius. "How can that be?"

_Age means nothing. The ageless ones weather the trickle of time._

Gallus flinched, Junius let out a half-muffled shriek, and Rory wheeled around brandishing his torch as the chilling voice of the Silence echoed through the cavern.

"Oh, saw fit to eavesdrop on us, did you?" Rory barked at the darkness. "Well, then, join the conversation! Show yourselves!"

And then, to Junius' utmost horror, a pale shape emerged from the shadow; a wraith, like a man that had lived in depravity too long to remember joy, or sunlight, or human touch. The shell of a being. Then, it spoke—if spoke was the right word; speaking requires a mouth and tongue, and Junius could see neither.

_We are the Silence. The Silence hears all. Every conversation, every whisper, every word spoken to an empty room, we listen and remember._

"You've been listening in for quite some time too, I think!" said Rory. "Since Tacitus tried to throttle me at this same spot, so very long ago."

_No._

"Don't lie to me."

_No. We have been watching you since the very beginning, long before the birth of Tacitus. He was not our first weapon, nor will he be our last._

"Why did you need him?"

_You entered our abode. Your removal was necessary._

"So you controlled Tacitus somehow, I'd say, to get him to kill me. You failed, though. I'm still alive. Obviously."

_Your death was not our objective. Tacitus served his purpose, and so his life was terminated._

"Is that so? So, then, you have other devious plans? Like what?"

The Silent pointed a spindly, pale finger at Rory. _Like you._

"What do you want with me?"

_We want to understand._

Rory's bold façade was slipping. "U…Understand? What about me do you want to understand?"

_You are unique. You are a human who is not a human, a mortal that is not a mortal. You have seen many years, and know much. You have many memories._

"So?"

_We take memories._

"Oh." Then Rory's brain spun into overdrive. _That's why I have so many gaps in my memory,_ he thought_. I've seen the Silence before, and I forgot about it each time. Who knows what could've happened during that amnesia?_

Then a pair of wiry white arms seized him from behind, and his train of thought derailed.

"Lemme go!" yelled Junius from someplace beyond sight. The sounds of a struggle indicated that both of Rory's companions were restrained. Rory squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain his focus. _Why would the Silence want my memories?_ He wondered. He must have asked that question aloud, because the Silent's answer chilled his soul.

_We collect them._

"Collect memories? For what?"

_They give us information. The experiences of a human with your…unique…perspective will tell us many things about your species. Your many memories help us to more efficiently shape your history. We released the plague that killed Emperor Aurelius. We gave Tacitus his name. We are the puppeteers of the past, present, and future, in a play which humans so unwittingly act out. Rory Williams, whatever manipulation we have done to Tacitus, we have done far more to you. The "ghosts" of your friends have allowed us to discern your emotions, but now we shall probe your mind._

Rory glimpsed the outline of a slab, eerily reminiscent of an autopsy table, before he was strapped to its surface. Something forced his eyelids shut, and he felt a cold disk of metal press against his forehead. And then, against his will, memories flooded to the front of his mind.

Six-year-old Amy was passing him a drawing during class; he was watching her recount the night she had met the Doctor; he was on one knee, a tiny red box held up to Amy's eyes that sparkled with the reflection of the engagement ring within; the Doctor was crashing what, until then, had been a splendid bachelor's party; he was strolling with Amy along the bustlingly beautiful canals of Venice; she was in his arms, limp, but he could barely see her through his tears; he was alone, on the back of a pterosaur or sailing a burning boat across the sea or walking the streets of Rome, but always alone.

It hurt. So much.

_The copying process brings the most emotionally charged memories to the surface_, the Silent was saying. _These experiences grant the greatest insight into the human psyche._

_Stop it_, thought Rory. _Just stop it, please. I'll do anything._ But the memories came faster; details long thought forgotten seared into his mind. Then, a single thought flashed through his consciousness.

_I'm not looking at the Silent right now. I still remember it._

_Something's different_, he thought. _They said I was unique, that I wasn't human. Maybe that's not a disadvantage. As a human, I'd forget the Silence as soon as I blink. But, as a machine…I remember._

_The process is complete_, spoke the Silent. Rory opened his eyes to find the creature manipulating a magnet held above his eyebrows.

"What? And you're not going to wipe my memory again?"

_That will be taken care of._

"But I can still remember everything!"

_That will be taken care of. Magnetism applied at this precise location_–the Silent indicated Rory's forehead—_will disrupt your neural circuitry and physically erase memories, a feature we have used efficiently in the past. We may create a state of total amnesia if necessary. But, now, we have no need to do so. Rise._

Rory found himself unfettered and leapt to his feet.

_Farewell, Rory Williams. Until we meet again._

Rory blinked but saw nothing but the darkness.

"They're gone?" asked Gallus, hauling himself upright.

"Thank goodness," shivered Junius.

Then Rory caught sight of an officer's helmet, gleaming in the torchlight. "Or not."

* * *

><p>The Roman Centurion and his allies stepped into the light. "Hands where I can see them, traitors."<p>

Rory and Junius obeyed, but Gallus stepped in front of them both.

"You're not touching him," ordered Gallus. "Roranicus may be guilty of treason, but I, for one, keep my promises. I have a debt of blood to pay to this man, and by the Gods I'm going to keep it."

The Centurion smiled humorlessly. "A blood debt? To the traitor? You owe him your life, I presume." Then, too fast to see, his _gladius_ swung in a semicircle with a sickening _slikk_, and Gallus collapsed to the ground. "Consider it paid."

Junius dropped to Gallus' side and pressed his fingers to his comrade's neck just in time to feel the final pulse of his heart. "You _monster!_" he shouted.

Rory drew his sword and lunged at the Centurion. A mob of soldiers swarmed him. Someplace in the frenzy, Rory lost his weapon; he pummeled faces with his fists instead. A well-aimed kick sent the Centurion flying clear across the cavern, hitting the wall with a satisfactory crunch. A chop to the collarbone incapacitated, and a blow to the gut sent men reeling to the floor. The cave was littered with twitching and limp men, and Rory, the last one standing, towered over the scene with the grim face of a death-god.

Junius, still kneeling by Gallus' body, pointed a shaky finger at Rory's torso. Rory looked down.

"Oh," he said, pulling a gladius from his chest. "The Centurion must have stabbed me. No matter, though. He didn't hit any vitals." Rory tossed the weapon aside.

"You were _stabbed_," said Junius, shocked.

Rory nodded.

"And you fought all those men anyway."

Another nod.

"Some of them aren't moving. Are they dead?"

"Quite possibly," shrugged Rory. "They got what was coming to them."

"No, they didn't," said Junius. "You didn't have to kill them."

"We're safe now. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it _does_ matter!" Junius pressed. "You treat human life as if it were nothing. All those years, all those memories; after seeing so much death, you just don't care anymore!"

Rory was silent.

"I've seen so much today," continued Junius. "The destruction of my city, Gallus' murder, and ancient creatures from my darkest nightmares. But you know what scares me the most? _You_ do. A man without conscience or boundaries, a man set apart from the rest of the world. You're an anomaly, an _abomination_. Gallus trusted you, and now he's dead. Right there"—Junius indicated a soldier splayed out on the ground—"is Acanthus. I knew him, just like I knew half of the men you just slew. You frighten me more than the Silence ever could. I don't want to be near you. I don't want to see you. I don't even want to _remember_ you. And thank goodness I don't have to." Junius held up his palm, the charcoal-scribbled Silent dancing in the torchlight. "All I'll remember is what happened at the Pantheon. And I'll chalk it up to hallucination, nothing more. I'll wake up later, my comrades at my side. The last few hours will be blank, and I'll continue my life."

"Don't do this, Junius," Rory pleaded hopelessly.

"It's the only escape," said Junius, raising a sword pommel above his head. "It's my only way forward. I'll let the past be the past. Nothing more." Then, in one swift motion, Junius wiped his hand against the folds of his tunic, erasing the Silence forever. As his eyes blanked with the memory loss, the sword-hilt crashed against his temple, and he sank to the floor, unconscious.

And Rory was, once again, utterly alone.

* * *

><p><span>One Month Later<span>

For a city trying to resurrect itself from the ashes of defeat, daily life for its inhabitants seemed remarkably normal. Citizens tiptoed around rubble in the streets on their way to the market; the wayfarers and beggars picked through the remains of houses looking for sellable baubles. In one of Rome's half-forgotten alleyways sat a cloak-wrapped figure. A man approached, his clothes not much better than rags; nevertheless, as he passed, he dropped a silver coin before the figure's feet.

"Thanks, but I don't need it," said Rory, adjusting his cloak.

The pedestrian stooped down to look him in the eyes. "You're the first bum I've met that's refused a _denarii_'s worth of alcohol. What is it you want, then?"

"What I want isn't something you can give," Rory muttered.

"Nonsense," said the man. "Nine times out of ten, all a man needs is a decent conversation. So, speak up. What's the matter?"

Rory sighed. "The Pandoric—I mean, the Pantheon—is under heavy guard. The soldiers say they're afraid the building could be looted, but I know better. They want to make sure I stay away."

The man did an excellent job of hiding his confusion.

"I've done some unforgivable, unspeakable things," said Rory. "There are memories spinning around in my head that I want to bury, because every time I remember, it hurts too much."

"Don't beat yourself up over the past," advised the man. "Move on."

Junius' most recent words jumped unbidden into Rory's mind. "_It's the only escape…my only way forward. I'll let the past be the past. Nothing more."_

Junius was right about Rory's murders; they were _wrong_. Junius had forgotten everything. Perhaps he'd been right about that too; perhaps the path to the future was in forgetting the past.

Then, Rory caught sight of the pendant hanging from the pedestrian's neck.

"That's not a lodestone, by any chance, is it?"

"Oh, aye," said the man, allowing Rory to examine the necklace. "I picked it up on my travels."

Rory's eyes practically glowed with hope.

"What, you'd like it?"

Rory nodded.

"Fine, then." The man untied the pendant and tossed it into Rory's lap. "It's just a trinket, but if you need it that badly, then take it."

"Thank you," said Rory, fingering the lodestone. "I appreciate your help. I won't forget you."

The man nodded, smiled, and left.

"Actually," whispered Rory, "I will."

The Silence had given him an escape. He'd wondered why they hadn't erased his encounter with the beings from his mind. They had simply responded: _That will be taken care of. _

And it would be taken care of—by Rory. The Silence had known that all along. They "let slip" that he could hold the magnet to his forehead to induce amnesia. They knew he'd want to forget everything, so they told him how.

Everything, though? What about his childhood, his parents, and all the fantastic places he'd seen? What about the Pandorica and the fiancé he'd sworn to protect?

_I've already failed her_, he realized. _I killed her myself, just like I killed those men. Remembering Amy…it's torture, because things'll never be the same with her. I'll never look her in the eye without seeing her, lifeless, in my arms…_

"I'm sorry, Amelia," he whispered to the quiet, and pressed the stone to his forehead.

_All words begin and end with Silence_, Tacitus had written. But Rory wouldn't remember.

He wouldn't remember a thing.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>: I'm back, and so is Doctor Who! Thanks for reading, and a big thanks to those of you who review. I've been very busy lately, which is why updates are so few and far between. Most of my business comes from schoolwork, which doesn't make a very fun read. However, I've also started a blog! If you're interested, feel free to check it out; I don't post very often but I hope you like what I have. The link's on my profile page. Also, if you haven't already, go read my other Doctor Who fanfic, the House of Mirrors, which was great fun to write.

Thanks for your support! You guys are awesome.

Allons-y!


	9. A Brief Interlude

**A Brief Interlude**

Vienna, Austria

A.D. 1906

The Professor was a well-respected man, and everything from his polished shoes to his balding crown reflected his high position in Viennese society. This late in December, the temperature often dipped below the freezing point, so the Professor carried a cane with him, a third foot for an extra grip on the slippery streets.

Today's walk brought the Professor to the _Stadtpark_, an expanse of well-trimmed lawn studded with statues and crisscrossed by the river Wien. He wanted to find someplace quiet, someplace beautiful, to escape from the rituals of life and simply sit and think. His search brought him to the riverbank, and he walked parallel to the waves until he reached a sufficiently isolated spot. The Professor then impaled his cane in the frosty soil, spread his blanket on the ground, and sat, wrapping the loose corners of the fabric over his suit to keep him warm.

There, he watched his breath freeze in the air and followed twigs and debris as the river carried them out of sight.

It wasn't until sundown that the Professor rose from his stupor. He didn't quite know why he jerked awake, only that he'd been staring at a distant carriage one moment, and standing, cane outstretched, the next. In the carriage's place was a man, blond-haired and sharp-nosed. He wore a new coat, but he wore a top hat styled nearly forty years out of date, a strange incongruity for a man no more than thirty himself.

But, strangest of all, the man was staring right at the Professor.

The Professor cleared his throat and lowered his cane, shrugging off his inexplicably odd behavior, and promptly resumed his sitting position. But the man began walking towards the Professor, which of course made the Professor nervous; the Viennese night presented an open invitation for all sorts of unsavory characters. Perhaps this whole blanket-sitting thing had been a terrible mistake. He should have stayed inside, where it was warm and safe—

And then the man was standing right before the Professor, looking right in his eyes.

"Sorry about that," said the man, in flawless German.

"About what?" asked the Professor.

"Didn't you see—oh, never mind," the man shrugged. "Um, mind if I sit next to you?"

The Professor minded very much, but he didn't say so. So the man sat down.

"Everyone calls me Harry," said the man. "It's short for Ahasuerus, but that's not my real name either."

"What is it, then?" asked the Professor.

Harry gave a tiny smile. "Well, that's just the thing. I was hoping you'd help me find out."

"How?"

"Something's gone wrong with my mind. I think you could help with that."

The Professor's curiosity got the better of his rationality, and he agreed. "Perhaps I could. I have a private practice, and I suppose you could come in for a half-hour session tomorrow."

"It'll take a lot longer than half an hour, I think," said Harry. "All the same, thirty minutes is better than nothing. Until tomorrow, then! It was nice to meet you, Doctor Freud."

Then he was gone.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>: Of course there's more coming, but I figured that you've waited long enough, so this is a bit of a teaser for what I'm working on now. Thanks for reading, and for not lynching me when I didn't update for a year. But, hey, I'm back now, and it's summer, so I'll have some more time to continue Rory's adventures! Allons-y!


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